


Stay

by bandaran



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abortion, Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs in a Car, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derek Hale is a Good Alpha, Discussion of Abortion, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Pack Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Spark, Stilinski Family Feels, Swamp Witches, True Shift, Werewolf Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:21:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 93,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7575535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bandaran/pseuds/bandaran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louisiana swamp witch AU!</p><p>A year ago Stiles and Scott were attacked in a parking lot by a deranged alpha wolf. Scott is Changed and Stiles now wears the beast's claw marks forever across his back. Recovered, he works in his grandmother's oddities shop in smalltown Louisiana selling trinkets to tourists. Just as spring breathes out across Hollow Downs, a rogue wolf appears in the county and hunting it down are Peter Hale, the one responsible for Stiles' scars, and his nephew. </p><p>This rogue wolf is not what it seems and neither is Derek Hale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rogue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is complete!
> 
> Author babbling will appear at the end of each chapter. 
> 
> I was so inspired by EloquentSavage's [Blue Bayou](http://archiveofourown.org/series/131178) and am in love with a southern, swamp witch Stiles that I started writing Stay. 
> 
> I'm hesitant to use the a/b/o tag for this fic, because while it will contain a/b/o themes it's not going to explore the genre in the popular/sensationalized sense of the tag. It's not a new thought, but a/b/o inherently brings up a lot of concerns about consent and that is that is what Stay delves into. If a/b/o is not your thing in any context, please be aware that it will appear here. 
> 
> Comments and questions super encouraged, I mean we can literally talk about the weather. Really.
> 
> You can find fanart/garbage on ye olde tumblr [here](http://bandaran.tumblr.com/)

 Boots smash the worn wooden floor. The planks reverberate, hands clap. The bar shakes and shivers. As soon as the room recognizes the song, they join in keeping time for the singer. He’s a big man and bearded, his eyes are wily, he’s a fox in a crooner’s clothes.

The rhythm is deceptively complex. Hollow natives are born with it. It lives in them as constant as their own heartbeat. There are a few melodies ingrained like that.

There are some peppered in the crowd that try to follow along, try to stamp out the beat and it’s off by fractions. They give up and are resigned to bobbing their heads and throwing more brew down their throat.

Electricity thrums in the streets. It constantly crackles in the strings of lights looped over buildings and across roads. It soaks down into bones as bodies gather in the Slammer; it washes them out, makes them fizz with excitement.

There are more out-of-towners around this time. When Spring rears, they flock here with it, to Hollow Downs. It’s cheap, it’s close to New Orleans, it’s on the Gulf, and it’s covered in tourist traps; gator ranches and the like. More money gets made in this season than the rest of the year and no one makes more than the Slammer’s proprietor, Baptiste.

Baptiste works behind the bar, tirelessly lining shots and shouting orders over his shoulder. And the familiar beat buzzes around him as bartenders flurry up and down the aisle. He occasionally squats just below the counter to take a discrete hit off the joint he keeps on top of the wine fridge. The man has no tact, but the bar is so laden with the hard scents of cigarette smoke, malt liquor and sweat no one seems to notice.

It’s packed. It’s sweltering. The tip jar has been emptied out into the safe twice and it’s not even midnight. It’s a good night.

This isn’t Lydia’s kind of place, which is just tough because it’s the only place. She sits further down the bar deigning to be amused by co-eds. The straw of a pretty little drink – one named after her – is caught in her teeth as she gives them a charming smile. She isn’t the only native that looks the way she does, she’s just the best at tugging people’s strings. Not that she needs to, not that girls like Lydia Martin have to try at anything. Why she bothers at all is beyond anyone. She’s pre-med. She only comes home for the breaks and facets right back into the attention and free drinks even though it seems pointless. Maybe she does it for the nostalgia.

Stiles certainly doesn’t have a rationale for the hurricane of mystery that is Lydia Martin. 

The rhythm has snuck its way into her as well. It’s slow but soon manifests in the tap of her lovely finger against the crystal cup in her hand. Her deft tapping is subdued but perfectly precise among the undulating bodies around her.

He’s glad she’s back. There’s a blank space when she’s at school. Soon her visits will be farther apart. Lydia was never going to stay in Hollow Downs. There’s nothing here for her.

Thankfully, she’s the only one that wised up.

Scott gets up in his stool, reaches behind the bar for the orange slices waiting on the other side.

“Get ‘yo sticky got damn fingers off my cutting board,” Baptiste snaps, leveling a paring knife at him.

“It stinks in here, Dude,” Scott pleads.

“Then don’t come here.”

Baptiste rolls his eyes. He tosses discarded orange peels at Scott, ones he's tugged off the rims of used drink glasses, but Scott doesn't seem to care.

 “Can I get a Red Hook?” Stiles asks leaning in.

“In a minute baby.”

With a huff, Scott twists back around, orange peels pressed up under his nose.

“I get the knife, but to you, it’s all ‘gimme a sec baby – oh don’t worry, baby, I’ll get it.”

“I don’t start fights in here twice a week,” Stiles says, knee bouncing with the beat as it builds in around them.

“Neither do I!”

Stiles shoots him a sideways glance. Scott would never step to some idiot in a show of hyper-masculine bravado, but people love Scott; much to the chagrin of their significant others. He’s the male Lydia. But while Lydia is the true hunter, in it for the chase and not necessarily the trophy, Scott is mostly just horny all the time. Incidences boil up often, especially during Spring break when inhibitions are marked at a disastrous low.

Stiles has taken a few stray punches either trying to break up a brawl or stall some jackass long enough for Scott to get his pants back up. He's, ok, he's not exactly happy to do it, but for his best friend? His best friend who acts out destructively after being dumped by the nuclear bomb of girlfriends? Yeah, he can withstand a few bruises.

His expression must convey the memory of bloody noses and cut lips he’s weathered because Scott sighs by way of concession. He sniffs his orange peels with slightly more dejection.

Baptiste uncaps a Red Hook with a hiss and slides it across the bar. As he’s digging in his pockets for the few crumpled dollars he managed to swipe from between his couch cushions and other various nooks in his Jeep, Baptiste slaps the oaken counter to get his attention and waggles a finger when he has it.

“It’s paid for baby.”

Stiles’ brow arches as is his immediate response to all things of this nature.

“What?” he asks dumbly.

“It’s paid for,” Baptiste repeats louder, maybe thinking he’s being made faint by the music.

“Is my dad here?” Stiles asks, twisting his head to the door. John Stilinski hasn’t made his way to his favorite table where the sheriff’s department usually gathers and Stiles doesn’t remember him saying anything about heading to the Slammer after his shift.

The bartender grabs his elbow, pulls him in closer and, goddamn Baptiste always smells good as shit, but tonight he smells like straight blackberry pie and it’s fucking great. His makeup, too, is consistently, infallibly, flawless, and tonight it's more shimmery than usual. Traditionally, he dolls up a little sharper at the start of the Spring tourist migration.

“Baby, you be’n hit on.”

“By who?” he scoffs, “Helen Keller?”

Baptiste swats his shoulder, “What’s wrong wit chu? No.”

“If it’s Greenburg, I’m leaving. We fuck'n talked about this, man.”

“You know what, I ain’t gon’ tell you. I’m busy, I got shit to clean. You wanna git laid, you gon’ have to actually talk to bitches.” Baptiste saunters away before he can protest.

“I don’t think I should call them bitches, BT,” he points out, sinking back into his stool.

“Someone bought you a drink?” asks Scott, eyes bright. Stiles considers lying, not that he could get away with it, but because Scott is a terrible wingman. He’s a wing-pimp in the worst possible way. He shrugs rather than admit to the fact that he’s embarrassingly flattered, giddy even.

He’s never the object of the chase, except for one time in elementary when Sarah Thibodeaux had a crush on him for a day and he put glue in her hair because girls were gross. What fool he had been. The wisdom he could now impart on Baby Stiles would have saved him so much trouble in later years. As soon as time travel is a thing it's the first trip on his list. That and, well, kill Hitler, right? Not going back in time as soon as it's a thing to kill Hitler is just plain un-American.

His eyes flicker over the bottle gripped in his palm. He doesn’t quite know what to do about it. It’s not like he’s a sexual abomination; he’s figured out his hair, for the most part, and a style of dress that works for him, but he understands his place in romantic encounters. He has to work for affection, it’s never just sort of dumped on him like it is Scott and Lydia. Then again, the fruits of his labor, of learning to try, have never earned him any complaints.

He wishes he had worn something better than a plain t-shirt; he’s not sure what, just something better.

Everyone seems enchanted by the music, the steady thud of shoes and drums; no one is looking directly at him. So that’s… crappy.

“If it didn’t smell like balls and sweat in here I’d sniff ‘em out,” Scott offers. Right. Because regardless of the human to the not-as-human ratio in this place, anyone would be totally cool with being tracked down by a bloodhound hunting potential sex for his good buddy.

“Thanks, Scotty,” he says, patting his friend’s back. He presses the bottle to his lips only for it to vanish from his hand.

“What the fu-,” he barks, but freezes when he hears the growl in Scott’s throat.

Stiles has a lot of practical knowledge of wolves; even though Scott is fairly new to the whole deal. Reading is his thing. But there is a large divide between the research he’s done and actually hearing the rasping shudder of a territorial growl. Hearing it vibrate out of Scott, plugs up his outburst before he can force it all the way out.

The response that follows from the kid holding Stiles’ drink, is just as surreal. The little shit just _laughs_. And there is no way someone could mistake the sound that Scott made; a human would have shat themselves. Stiles is only eighty percent sure he hasn’t; which makes the asshole chuckling at them a wolf or worse.

Scott, his best friend, his brother, is the only exception to the swell of incensed terror that floods Stiles' belly in the presence of a wolf. A ghost of past pain sprays his spine and shoulder blades. It's like staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, a feeling that's weighty and inescapable.

“It’s for you,” the kid says, offering the bottle to Scott.

 _Well isn’t that just fucking typical_?

He doesn't look very old. Wolves age, but it's different from humans somehow. It's in the eyes. Older ones, ones that were born or turned with the bite a long time ago, have reserves of predatory confidence built up after years of being at the top of the food chain. 

Scott blinks, eyes shifting from the bottle to the kid.

“Oh, uh, thanks man, but I’m not-,”

“It’s not like that,” says the young man. He’s pale and tall, with grayish blue eyes set in an incredibly innocent visage, one that isn't physically childlike but is steeped in the same youthful sweetness. The kind of face that would, under different circumstances, make Stiles want to trust him.

“What’s it like, Carl Lagerfeld?” asks Stiles, because it’s literally ninety degrees inside and out of this bar and this kid is draped in a frayed scarf and wearing heavy boots.

A raptorial gaze falls on him, his head cocking to the side, curious.

“Is this your pet?” he asks after taking measure.

Stiles sneers, “I’m his gardener.” Scott is unwittingly the Frodo in their friendship.

The young man’s laugh flutters out again and it’s a pointedly cruel sound. He turns back on Scott, “I’ll drink it if you won’t, either way, I’m supposed to make it clear it was the Hale Black Card that paid for it.” He takes a swig and grins.

Stiles shoots a sidelong glance at Scott, who’s gone rigid. He doesn’t need a supernatural sense of smell to pick up of the sudden anxiety in the air. The kid is way too amused by Scott’s reaction so Stiles deflects, “And what’re you, Peter Hale’s life coach?”

“No actually,” he says, “but my alpha did send me in here to politely ask Scott’s cooperation.”

“Cooperation for what?” Scott asks, having regained himself. Immediate, unwavering fear is the common response to someone casually dropping the name Hale into a conversation. Even Stiles’ dad locks up at the mention and he’s not only the sheriff but a multiple gun owner. There are certainly a fair amount of folks – human folks – in Hollow Downs that shiver in a Hale’s presence even if they don’t know exactly why they should be afraid.

Scott in particular?

It’s more than bad blood – and it’s over. Stiles’ chews on the inside of his cheek. It’s _supposed_ to be over.

This kid… he’s cocky, just like Scott was after the bite.

Stiles has seen born wolves, they move differently, like every step, every word is carefully calculated. This kid and Scott aren’t like that. The Hales’ little envoy is a recent addition to their terrifying family.

“There’s a rogue wolf in town,” says the kid, “Alpha Hale wants all wolves in the territory to help track it down and bring it back to the Den for trial.”

“What’d it do?” Scott asks tentatively.

“Mostly vandalism, tear’n up dumpsters, some property damage. It attacked one of Peter's betas and nearly kill her. Dr. Deaton thinks it might be rabid, only a matter of time before people start sharpening their pitchforks.”

“Uh, yeah, sure, I can help.”

“ _Scott_ ,” Stiles hisses.

“It’s not a big deal, I mean, if it’s hurting people I should.”

“We’re meeting out by the wharf around midnight,” says the young man, “The wolf we’re looking for is in the True Shift, so if you run into it beforehand, don’t try to catch it on your own.”

“True Shift?” Scott asks before Stiles can. For all his reading, there are some things one can only learn from the wolves themselves and Scott isn’t exactly a wealth of knowledge on the subject. Shifting is about the wolfiest thing he does; he mostly just drinks and works on the road crew.

“Yeah, it gets down on all fours and grows fur.”

“How do you know it’s not just a wolf?”

“It’s the size of a horse,” the kid chuckles, “and this is Louisiana. You seen a lotta _real_ wolves ‘round these parts?”

“What’d you mean you’re gonna put it on trial?” Stiles asks skeptically. Alpha Hale isn’t exactly a proponent of law and order; at least, not of law and order that doesn’t work to his advantage in some way. And for a few dinged up trash cans? The damage can’t have been that bad or else Stiles would have heard about it. Small town gossip is a wildfire. A huge, deranged wolf tearing apart property seems like something that should have made the rounds by now.

The kid’s mouth presses together in answer. Right. Because Stiles is just a lowly human. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Same question,” puts in Scott.

“Same answer,” he replies, “it doesn’t matter what Alpha Hale does with it. He’s the alpha. He wants it caught. You wanna keep living in the territory? Then you’ll help.”

“You don’t know, do you?” asks Stiles.

“Do I have a goatee and glowing red eyes?” Stiles doesn’t answer; he knows better than to play with Hale Pack alignments. It takes more willpower than he expects to hold down the flurry of sarcastic retorts that come to mind.

The kid smirks, “Right. I don’t. Because I’m not Alpha Hale. I don’t care what he wants it for. I know my place.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, unable to restrain himself, “A Hale Gamma. Mom and dad must be so proud.”

Ok.

So his impulsive need to sass is a regrettable one. Stiles doesn’t really feel any pain until a few seconds after having his head slammed against the bar. Violence seems like a bit of an overreaction, but what does he know? All he cares about in that moment is the white out of pain flowering over his temple and how seeing a strange wolf lunge at him may or may not have forced him to piss himself a little. His underwear is certainly damper than before.

There are rules – Hale imposed rules, actually – that stop wolves in Hollow Downs from ripping humans to shreds even if they’re provoked. Knowing this occasionally makes Stiles too arrogant, especially when he forgets that the consequences for breaking the Hale code of conduct are fairly lax; it has apparently been years since they were properly enforced. When Talia Hale held the Alpha title, he’s heard that there were no incidences for twenty years.

 Nowadays it seems like the rules are really more of a suggestion when it comes to Hollow Downs wolves. This kid will get a slap on the wrist, or maybe swatted with a newspaper – because wouldn’t that be hilarious – and Stiles will get landed in the hospital, newly paraplegic.

Before both of his arms are torn off, Scott gets ahold of the kid and _throws_ him.

“Isaac, enough!” someone roars. Stiles barely hears them. His head is swimming.

“Dude, you’re bleeding,” Scott chatters nervously, getting Stiles to his feet. Stiles sags into him, thank Christ for wolf strength. If Scott wasn’t propping up all of his weight, he’d be a drooling heap on the floor. This seems slightly more dignified.

“NawScotty, I’m good,” he manages.

A huge man stands over the kid. Stiles recognizes him after a moment. They went to high school together.

“Issat Boyd?” he hears himself ask.

Vernon Boyd snatches Isaac up by the back of his collar, like he weighs nothing, and spins him toward the exit. Isaac, lowly growling, shrugs him off and stalks away.

Boyd nods at Scott, his face as blank and immobile as Stiles remembers and says by way of stern greeting, “McCall." His brow cocks appraisingly, but clearly there’s not much to appraise, “Stilinski,” he adds when the name comes to him. Fair. They didn’t exactly run in the same circles – well, Stiles’ circle was Scott and Boyd’s circle was pretending none of the idiots they went to school with existed. 

Boyd strides out after Isaac.

“Dude,” Stiles tries to whisper, but it comes out too loud mostly because of the head rush, “Boyd’s a werewolf.”

“Yeah, dude, I noticed.”

“I’m gonna puke,” Stiles heaves, “take me somewhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost: Baptiste. I'm a Trueblood fan. Or was. The first two seasons under Alan Ball's direction were phenomenal. The parallel between Teen Wolf's decline and True Blood's is eerie. I do wonder sometimes if there will ever be a show that matches the caliber and imagination of these two that will actually sustain it's own momentum passed the first couple of seasons. 
> 
> I digress. 
> 
> So if I'm writing a Teen Wolf AU set in Louisiana I couldn't pass up the chance to incorporate an LGBTQA+ character as powerful and entertaining as Lafayette. I feel like actually using the character's name would have just been confusing because it's really the only part of True Blood that appears here. So Baptiste is Lafayette in spirit. Seriously, though, imagine Lafayette on Teen Wolf. Dream mashup.


	2. Think

Stiles blames the gashes to his forehead and cheek on drunkenly falling down the front steps at the Slammer. His father rolls his eyes and believes him.

Gumma doesn’t. She does not voice it, but her keen eyes grow narrow as soon as the lie is spun from his lips. She stitches him up in the back office, wolfsbane incense shrouding the room in thick herbal smoke. She doesn’t pester him for details, but he knows he’s in hot water all the same.

 

Scott texts him the next day. They didn’t catch the wolf. They don’t know anything about it other than its scent, which goes all over town apparently, crisscrossing and backtracking. They can't tell if the thing is mad or deliberately laying false trail.

Stiles is inclined toward the latter.

Too many paths to follow.

It knows it’s being hunted.

 

So maybe he's imagining it. Because he's paranoid and he forgot he'd already taken his medicine that morning and ended up taking it twice. Blame the Mets and the ESPN. He knows his love for a Yankee team is hedonism in this town, but whatever, these hicks don't know his life. And it's not the point.

He's crouching by his Jeep outside of the Country Market taking his tire pressure, the air pumps rumbling noisily beside him as a portly old guy with a farmer's tan goes about filling his own tires. The pumps are probably the most inconvenient service in this town. They're behind the grocery store, trapped between the weathered brick backside of the shop and a dirty, little creek that stinks to high hell due to all the manure runoff further up the road.

The crowning glory of sensory assault is the dumpsters. The hotter it gets, the worse this gritty shit hole starts to wreak. Breathing through his mouth just makes him gag, so he had been working quickly. By chance, while reading the gage, his eyes had darted over the dumpsters.

And they're brand new.

Nothing in Hollow Downs is new. The whole town was built antebellum and the good folks here liked it so much they never saw the point in making anything new. Businesses come and go, property changes hands, but the infrastructure has basically gone unaltered. The stubbornness that preserves this place is almost belligerent. And electricity? It's flat-out embarrassing how long it took for this town to agree to join the grid. So yeah, new dumpsters behind the Country Market? Big deal.

The pieces tumble into place like this is a fucked up game of supernatural Tetris. The tiny voice he usually ignores squeaks that he's being paranoid, that the original dumpsters were so old there was literally no green paint left on them, only rust – that it's time for a change. But the rest of him, the hypervigilant, strung out on Adderall part of him, instantly and deftly begins sliding pieces together.

His brain invents an image of a shiny black card sliding out of a very expensive leather wallet.

He's stopped what he's doing. Loses track of time. The air pumps stop rattling as the old man pulls away.

He can't stop looking at the sturdy steel panels. What he is looking at doesn't make any sense.

Stiles stands abruptly. He trots around the building and into the Market. He jogs through the aisles until finding the person he wants.

"Danny!" He calls out. Danny sees him, visibly sighs – uncalled for, seriously – and continues marking up cans of Spaghetti-O's with his price gun. "DannyDannyDanny," Stiles prattles off shuffling to a stop, "Where'd the dumpsters out back come from?"

"Why do you care?" Danny asks, still stickering, talking like Stiles is a gnat on a hot day.

"Just curious," it snaps out of him, very obviously conveying that his interest in the damn things far exceeds passing fancy. He blinks rapidly, squeezing his eyes shut hard a few times. It's an agitated tick from all the medicine, one that probably makes him look like he's suffering minor seizures. Stiles rubs his face. He didn’t realize how sweaty he is.

Danny eyes him, "Peter Hale."

" _Why_ , though?"

"Um, I don't really know. My manager just showed up yesterday and they were being unloaded. The guy that delivered them said Mr. Hale wanted to help out what with the recession and all; he knew we couldn't replace them ourselves."

Stiles blinks a few more times. "So out of the kindness of his heart, for no apparent reason, Peter 'eat my ass' Hale just decided to buy ya'll new trash bins."

Danny shrugs.

"Ok... uh, thanks, Danny. I'll see ya," he turns on his heel, his mind buzzing all the way back to his car.

 

He's making a sandwich at home by the time he gets around to calling Scott. Because impulses – bad. Rumination – good. He wanted to call Scott immediately after talking to Danny, but stopped himself. Stop and think. Only the more he thought, the weirder the whole thing sounded. Peter Hale does not give a hot gay fuck about Hollow Downs. He technically doesn’t even live in town limits, which doesn't really account for his active disregard, but Stiles feels slightly righteous in his ability to disassociate a prick like Peter from his hometown.

Peter isn't good enough for the Downs.

Scott picks up and he immediately launches into the whole conspiracy and when he finishes Scott endearingly offers, "I don’t get it."

"Dude," Stiles whines, "Dude, think – the only logical reason Peter 'cock-waffle' Hale would do something like this is if it benefited him. The wolf you're hunting probably tore up the old ones and he covering it up. I knew it was weird no one in town had heard anything about a big animal prance'n about, tearing shit up."

"But that's not weird at all, dude. The town would flip out if they knew about – about us." Scott doesn't like the word werewolf. His ex made sure of that.

"No, something isn't right. I feel it. The whole trial, covering the thing's tracks – covering for it – something is way the fuck off. You should stay away from this Scotty, seriously."

"I don't really have a choice." Stiles knows he doesn't, not really, but can't help trying to keep his best friend out of it. Scott isn't part of the Hale Pack. He's the only wolf in town not tied to a pack. Peter might have bitten him, turned him or whatever they liked to call it, but Scott refused to be knitted into the faction. His existence in this territory is precarious enough without him rebelling against what could just as easily been an order rather than a polite request.

"Just be careful, ok?"

"I will, dude, don't worry."

  


Stiles jams his sandwich half into his mouth, chews furiously.

Nothing on his computer screen can calm the maelstrom in his mind so he snaps the laptop closed. He sits, teeth mashing, staring at nothing.

He finishes eating as quickly as he can, gives Gumma a kiss and whisks out the door, keys jingling in his hand.

This is unhealthy behavior. One of his many childhood attempts at therapy had insisted he learned to identify unhealthy – mainly obsessive – behavior in order to head it off. Except that shit doesn't work. Just because he's aware of the rhythm he's slipping into absolutely does not mean he can control it in any way. Like right now.

He feels bad about himself, about letting himself react to past trauma like this, but in what fucking universe does that change anything? Not all therapists are created equal. There are shitty ones and there are great ones and a fancy degree doesn't make you infallible. And he hears that therapist's voice every time he gets riled up over something, again, like right now.

Peter still has control over him. The fear of him has evened out over time, but it may never fade and knowing that he's up to something, that he's doing _something_ , that might end up throwing other people into the same pit of nightmares and anxiety that Stiles lives in is not a matter he can watch unfold idly twiddling his thumbs.

He drives around town, slowly, around the buildings being beaten by hard sunlight. He's not going to try catching the wolf; that would be _actually_ insane, no, he's going to find out what Peter doesn't want found. If Talia Hale, rest her, was in his position, new dumpsters to hide the appearance of a wretched, stray wolf wouldn't have seemed strange. She loved the town and the people in it, made strives to keep normal humans just as safe as her pack.

But Peter? Rakish, fuck you, Peter Hale? Who, by the by, was never meant to be alpha the way Stiles heard it, and only inherited the Spirit after fire took half the family, including Talia, beyond the Door. Peter would not spend good money on something like this, no matter how stupidly wealthy he is.

Maybe he is trying to keep knowledge of wolves from the people here, maybe that's all there is, but Stiles' gut is so set on the almost electric wrongness of this whole situation that he can't let it go. And the Gut is never wrong. The Force is strong with these bowels.

He's not sure what he is looking for. Improvements to the town? He does find that Country Market isn't the only shop with new dumpsters, but that doesn't give any more information than he's already got.

So think.

Animal Planet is the shit, especial after hitting a joint, which he'd never do in his own house because Dad equals sheriff equals elected position. He'd never dare endanger his father's career, but on the real, he was a teenager and other teenagers have basements. Basements and pot and TV; everyone's been there.

He loves the big predator specials that come on late night. And has seen a few about wolves, real wolves, obviously. He could be wrong, but he's guessing that this True Shift business just brings a werewolf closer to its roots, lets it walk in the flesh and fur of its origins. It stands to reason that maybe their behavior steers further from human and closer to animal when in the shift.

Maybe.

He's sort of just making this up as he goes.

In the documentaries he's seen, he remembers that sometimes packs that came close to civilization would do what Rogue One is doing. Scavenge. So many new smells and sounds and new food sources, of course, they would have a look around. But why hasn't it run off yet? This is clearly marked territory and it knows it's being chased.

Stiles breaks at a stoplight and grinning college students skip across the street waving brown paper bags concealing their liquor. As if covering a can of fun juice with a paper bag is fooling....

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose. What isn't he seeing? Between the bake of the sun, his drifting thoughts and his sizzling frustration he's ready to scream.

The old dumpsters, they were _really_ old. Green. Rickety. Cheap. The new ones are... they're tougher, bigger. Wouldn't it have been easier just to replace them with the same basic model?

Stiles guns it when the light turns. He slides in behind the Country Market, Jeep coughing, and hops out. There's no one around. Just him and shit smell of the creek and buzzing June bugs. He approaches the new dumpsters. All dumpsters look industrial, that's sort of the point; they’re heavy duty so they can be thrown around by a garbage truck lift- thingie. These are too just... more.

Bulkier.

He rests a hand on the siding. It's cool to the touch in the shadow of the Market. The lid is heavy. He tests it and it doesn't budge. A closer inspection around the back puts a tickling feeling in Stiles' belly.

These dumpsters are reinforced steel with a special catch mechanism installed on the side doors and lid that prevents tampering, according to the sticker on the bin's rear. They're tamper and animal proof guaranteed effective for ten years.

Stiles goes back to his Jeep. Sits.

Peter could have just replaced them with the same cheap make. But he didn’t. Because he's not just trying to cover up its existence; he's trying to starve the wolf out and that fact whips up a hundred new questions.

The obvious motive behind cutting off the wolf's food source is to drive it off, that would have been a Talia Hale plan. No more food and it'll move on, no one has to get hurt. That is not what this is. Because Peter doesn't want to drive it off. Peter wants to _catch_ it. Wants it bad enough that he's sending out hunting parties and trying to starve the creature, make it weak, maybe even make it fall out of the Shift?

Isaac said it's the size of a horse. Surely if it was starving a human body would be easier to sustain than that of a massive carnivore. It must need to feed constantly, just like a grazer that size. The only part Stiles struggles with as he stares blankly at his dashboard is why isn't the wolf hunting?

There's plenty of livestock on the surrounding farms and even Gumma keeps a coop for fresh eggs. Easy pickings. Not even Peter could cover up missing chickens and what not. Is that a human choice buried in the animal's subconscious? On some level does it know that people depend on their livestock for survival? That losing just a couple could compromise their way of life?

If it's not going after farm animals, it could be hunting in the woods, but that seems unlikely. Not for lack of big game; it may not want to tangle with a gator, but there's all manner of deer and rodents in these forests.

If the beast is in control and hunting was on the table Stiles is going to stick with his first assumption that the cattle would go first and then the nimbler wild prey. If the person half is in control... it wouldn't be eating garbage to start with, right? Garbage might not make it sick, but why choose to subject itself to that? Stiles grinds his teeth. Why? Why the _trash_? None of it makes sense.

A huge wolf, that somehow no one has caught a glimpse of, that refuses to hunt and is determined to stay close to town – if he could just conjure the reason, figure out what exactly the thought process is here, maybe he could do something about it.

He doesn't want to catch it, he doesn't, but the only thing Stiles can solidly grab on to is that what Peter is so hellbent on catching isn't a what at all.

It's a who.

And Stiles can't let that happen.

  


Stiles' next move is obvious. He tells his dad. Most denizens of Hollow Downs aren't privy to the existence of the supernatural underworld. John Stilinski grew up in Gumma's house, he had been aware of such things, but never paid too much attention until Scott got turned. Still, it had sort of been a 'they stay on their side of town and I stay on mine' type situation.

And then Peter happened.

Stiles' dad is a good cop, but he's also a father and a Stilinski. After Stiles was hospitalized, Peter Hale's finances and tax records may have mysteriously come under extra scrutiny. Unfortunately, nothing viable was turned up and there was no way to arrest him for what he did to Stiles without A: evidence and B: successfully convincing a jury of his peers that the wolfman is real.

But this? This is something Sheriff Stilinski might be able to work with. Regardless of the wolfiness, there is a person out there somewhere being hunted by a man the whole town despises. If the Sheriff's Department, or the few members of the department that have knowledge of these things, can get to the wolf first and convince it to take human form they'll have enough momentum to go after Peter.

Because last Stiles checked, hunting humans is fucking illegal. Between the rogue wolf's testimony and Scott's corroboration having been forced into participation – he was basically threatened into it, that's true, and whatever reason they give doesn't really matter – Peter will be some scary inmate's plaything before Halloween.

John Stilinski listens patiently at the bar as Stiles fills him in. His white-blue eyes are stuck on his beer, but he hasn't touched it. He's thinking, that same pinch in his brow that Stiles gets when he's concentrating.

"Put Parrish on it," Stiles suggests as his father mulls things over, "I'll have Scott make excuses to get out of the hunt and the two of them can get after it."

John nods slowly, "How sure are you that it's shifter?"

"Isaac said it's a werewolf, it's just in a different shift than we're used to."

"The True Shift," his dad mumbles.

"You know what that is?" He shouldn't be surprised. John knows almost as much as Gumma, he just doesn't see the use in that sort of knowledge.

John shrugs, "A little. Never seen it before, but I've heard stories. Didn't know any American wolves could do it, honestly. It's more of an old world thing," he finally takes a sip from his glass.

"Anything to eat, boys?" Baptiste asks, leaning over the bar. He's got peacock feathers in his hair and wears matching dark green eye shadow.

"Two veggie burgers, thanks bud," Stiles cuts in before his father can make a poor life choice.

"You got it, baby," replies Baptiste and he saunters away.

With a groan, John adds, "Even if Parrish can catch it, only thing I know can force a wolf to change is an alpha."

"Maybe if we could contain it, show it it's safe, it'd come out on its own."

"Contain it in what, kid, a dog carrier?" chuckled John.

"The station has a K-9 unit," Stiles reminds him, "Those kennels are big enough for a bear, thanks to those animal rights people, and they're isolated."

"Not isolated enough. Every deputy's keycard'll get them in and if that thing starts howling they'll come running. I really don't need people calling the police over a noise complaint _caused by the police_." He gives a heavy sigh, “But you’re right, we can’t just do noth’n; for all we know whoever the wolf is, they might be in trouble. Hell, I take that back, they _are_ in trouble. The chance is too good that deep down they’re just regular folk. I’ll put a call in to Chris Argent, see what he makes of it.”

“ _Dad_ ,” Stiles hisses, but before he can say more John cuts him off.

“Stiles, me and Parrish and Scott are out of our depth here. Scott’s only been a werewolf less than a year, and Parrish – who the hell knows what he is, your gramma ain’t even sure – and he ain’t got a good enough handle on what he can do to be much use. Me? I’m just a decent shot with high cholesterol. We ain’t exactly the dream team. Now, I know how you and Scott feel about Chris, but regardless of his prejudice he is a trained hunter and he respects the badge enough not to harm this wolf on my turf. Especially if it’s not hurt’n anybody.”

Stiles chews on his bottom lip. He’s headstrong, but he can’t deny a steady argument, “Just… don’t tell Scott.”

“Scouts honor, I'll keep them out of each other’s way.”

“Thanks, dad.”

“Here you go cher, fresh from the garden,” Bastiste beams sliding their plates in front of them. John stares at him and his eyes drift closed, heavy with annoyance.

“Everything in this joint comes with fries, what the hell is this?” he grumbles.

Baptiste leans in again, chin resting in both hands, “Well Sheriff, whatchu got there are some fresh green peppers, baby carrots and cherry tomatoes just picked from my patch out back, served with a side of low fat ranch dressing.” He bats his long lashes and gives his most charming smile.

John glares at his son, “You’ve turned the entire town against me.”

“How dare I make sure you live passed sixty? I’m the _real_ monster,” Stiles retorts, rolling his eyes.

“You know Bill Starkweather refused to make me a steak and cheese yesterday. I almost arrested him for impeding an officer.”

Stiles shrugs as he gnaws on a carrot stick.

  


The months following his release from the hospital were – they were bad. Stiles didn't leave his house for a long time. Every tiny noise, the yawning of the walls, the beeping dishwasher, the tree tapping his window, everything that used to be familiar to him was twisted into a threat. He would rip around at the sound, whatever it was, and swear gleaming red eyes were sparkling in the shadows.

The night terrors had been worse.

Too many nights had his father come home after a night shift either to his screaming or to find him curled up and half out of his mind with fear on the bathroom floor.

Therapy helped. Gardening with Gumma, working out with Scott; it was a slow hike to recovery. He wasn't as jumpy anymore, but Peter had stripped away the ability to find comfort in the open. Even in broad daylight, loading groceries into the back of the Jeep and surrounded by other families doing the same, he was constantly aware of his surroundings, head swiveling every so often to observe the movement around him.

That panicky feeling is always elevated in a crowd. He still had yet to crack that particular nut of psychosis, since he'd been alone the night he had encountered Peter. And here, today, shifting bags to make room for his gallon of milk, a hot lick of unease continually touches the back of his neck. Each time he pauses in his chore, glances around the lot, all he sees are little kids running ahead of their parents' cart or droves of folks trudging up to the store.

An older man and his husband pass behind him, talking happily, nodding at him in greeting. He smiles back, half in and half out of the trunk when he halts, hands going still. As the couple passes he gets a clear line of sight into the tangle of trees skirting the edge of the parking lot. He squints.

For just a moment he thinks he sees someone, leaning on one of the trunks. Whoever it is, they're too far off to make out any distinctions, but one. They're staring at Stiles. Right at him. He blinks and the person vanishes. Stiles straightens and searches between cars. There's no sign of anyone in that direction.

"The fuck?" He murmurs.

Still scanning the tree line, he grabs another bag from his cart when the sound of growling catches his ear.

Not real growling.

Drunk asshole growling.

Sure enough, Jackson Whittemore and his flavor-of-the-week consort are idling by his Porsche. Jackson bares his teeth, makes claws with his hands and growls at Stiles and his date laughs sheepishly. Her gaze is too interested, neck craning, hoping that Stiles will turn back around. He pulls at the rim of his shirt just to be sure it's not riding up.

Stiles snaps at her, "The fuck are you looking at?!"

He doesn't like sounding so cruel, but it's the only way to deal with people like her. To her, he's not a person.

Jackson just laughs.

Stiles throws the hatch closed, does away with his cart and drives home without sparing them another glance.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little insight into Stiles' paranoia and why exactly he is that way, which will be expanded on in later chapters. The show sort of mildly grazed over PTSD in the characters, but certainly didn't expand on it the way I had hoped. Maybe I'm being to critical, because, let's be real, the show is called Teen Wolf and maybe we shouldn't go looking for depth in a shallow pool. Many of the themes in TW were surprising/refreshing, but without fail, every time the writers got close to something profound it was like they were too skittish to actually try grappling with more dire circumstances. And then when they did try to go thoughtful and "dark" we ended up with contrived scenarios like the Stiles/Scott break-up. During that episode, my roommate thought I'd hurt myself I was groaning so loud. 
> 
> Anyway. 
> 
> You may be having a season five moment of WHERE THE FUCK IS DEREK HALE. It's understandable. I'm also still fragile. Let me put your mind at ease by saying, in many cases no one really likes exposition - I get so bored writing it, most of the time I'll skip it and come back later after all the frame work is in place - BUT Derek will wander in to the story in the next chapter. Although it's safe to say that, yes, obviously, that was him at the very end, because we all know how much he likes pretending to be a tree. 
> 
> Please feel free to let me know what you think!


	3. Bazaar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two uploads this week, one today and one tomorrow, because I'll be on vacation next weekend. Extra bonus, I finally finished the art piece below! Enjoy!

Lydia sits on the checkout counter idly running her fingers over the antique cash register. It doesn’t work worth a shit now. The piece of junk is really the only reason Stiles got good at math and why it was his best subject in high school. Being bad at math meant shorting Gumma’s store or the customers. Both earned him a tanned ass.

She punches keys that no longer trigger a mechanism.

Bazaar could be considered a tourist trap, but Stiles like to think it’s in better taste than some of the mud wrestling pits and put-put nightmares speckling the main highway. It’s a mix of Creole and Polish oddities. Yankees love that shit. Most of it is completely useless junk. Stiles has sold college students rocks he fished out of the creek behind his house passed off as gris-gris before. He really hams up his accent too and the dumbasses practically pelt their money at him.

Lydia leans back on the counters as she tries to squint out the dirty little window to her left.

"Stiles, I think you have a visitor."

His head whips around. A dark blur hovers beyond the pane, pacing back and forth. Stiles sighs.

"I'll be right back," he mutters and jogs to the back. He throws open the door to Gumma's office. The room is dark and the smoke from her cigars lingers, embedded in the upholstery. He goes to the second door on the far side of the room. He doesn't throw this one wide, rather he cracks it enough to wedge himself part of the way through.

Only two kinds of people use the side door.

"What's up, boss?" Stiles asks, but he's not cheery, not like he is with the regular customers. The startled man gapes at him. He's a little doughy with thinning hair, the archetype of a person that looks like they're good with numbers; maybe he's an accountant or fiduciary. He looks confused to see Stiles; confused, relieved, disappointed. The emotions chase each other over a sickly, sweat beaded face.

The man swallows and says, "Yes, I'm sorry to bother you," he anxiously wrings his soft hands, "I was told I should – I'm looking for Mama Mercy?" Whoever he is, he isn't from Louisiana or anywhere in the south and his neutral accent drags awkwardly over the name.

"She's not in today," Stiles says, clipped, "Come back tomorrow."

"Wait!" The man cries as Stiles starts to pull the door shut, "Wait, I, is there someone else I can talk to? Your manager?"

Stiles cocks a brow, "This look like the kinda place with a manager?" The chipped mortar and faded bricks of the building fill in his meaning. The man's eyes flit over the neglected structure and hand painted sign hanging around the corner. When he looks back to Stiles the wretched stains in his eyes are more prevalent; human eyes that’ve seen what they shouldn’t and can’t look away.

"Please, I really need to talk to her. I'm in, I'm in trouble, please."

"I can't make her appear, bud," Stiles snaps, "she'll be here tomorrow. Til then, help yourself to some brick dust. It’s out by the shed. Line your windows and doors."

The man's puffy face goes red, "Ok, kid, I came a long way to see-,"

Stiles doesn't slam the door, as he is want to do, but lets it drift closed. People like this man don't ever work up the courage to come into the shop proper. Stiles tugs on his auricle piercing as he makes his way back to the counter. The dealings Gumma sits so patiently through that take place in her office are almost always superstitious lunatics. If he had to guess, maybe one a year is a legitimate plea for help to contend with forces outside the human domain.

But Gumma listens to them all and doesn't ask any compensation. Stiles, on the other hand, lost empathy for them a long time ago. They all fit neatly into the same pattern that man just displayed. Big, scared doe eyes, 'please help, I need Mama Mercy, please' and as soon as he shuts them down it turns into 'listen here you little shit'. To his credit, the man hadn't gone nuclear; maybe if Stiles had hung around to listen to him gripe he would have gotten worked up enough to do so.

"Blue is a nice color," remarks Lydia glumly as he passes. He gives a shy grin as he goes about his chores, fingers going through the front of his hair. Baptiste has been trying new dyes on him for years to get his formulas right. Last time Lydia was in town the patches in his bangs had been green. He didn't let BT dye his whole head anymore. Not after the _purple disaster_. He'd had to shave his head the damage was so bad. He should have been done with buzz cuts, but alas. All of sophomore year was a hair growing nightmare. He shudders at the memories of Gumma rubbing his head down with all manner of smelly concoctions to get it to come back.

“I’m taking a buffer year,” Lydia says.

He feels her eyes on him as he restocks votive candle stubs. Lydia can read a reaction no matter how hard a person tries not to have one.

“You’re about to graduate,” he says over his shoulder.

“True.”

“So why not wait ‘til you do?”

“I don’t feel like finishing.”

Stiles chuckles and continues stocking. She wants to be coy and he’s not going to stop her. He’s a little bit pleased. The curse of being smart, gorgeous, perfect Lydia Martin is having to live in an imperfect world.

She used to pursue fulfillment through social standing in high school until she figured out just how temporary and trivial it all was. She had tried again by snapping up the flawless, Captain Jock boyfriend, but Jackson was/is about as shallow as a puddle and not exactly stimulating intellectual company. Next she turned to academics, but apparently, not even a coveted doctorate program at Carnegie-Melon is enough to hold her attention for long.

Whatever she tries next will certainly be interesting.

“Is there something inside these candles?” she asks, turning over one of the cat-shaped figurines.

“When the wax burns down there’s an iron skeleton underneath.”

As if it’s just turned to something unsavory in her hands, she carefully sets it back in the box with a sighed, “Oh.”

“I found ‘em on Amazon, some guy in New Zealand makes them in his garage. Gumma thought they were cool enough to order.”

“Shouldn’t you be busier?” she asks, taking in the shop's low walls and sconces and the noticeable absence of wide-eyed customers.

Stiles shrugs, “There’s some kind of parade in town. Usually doesn’t pick up until the tourists are hammered anyway. Sooo, in a couple of hours.”

For a moment it looks like Lydia’s going to mention the time, that it’s barely nine in the morning before she remembers that especially in the spring, drinking doesn’t so much start as it rolls over from the previous night.

The wind chimes over the front door tinkle. Briefly, he wonders if the poor dork he'd spoken to earlier has decided to confront him. It's unlikely. Stiles winks at her wipes his hands on his apron and goes around the towering wooden shelf.

“How you do’n today-,”

He swallows, brain fizzling.

“Stilinski?”

“Gimme a sec,” Stiles forces out, back peddling to the register. He goes within a breath’s space of Lydia, and whispers as low as he can, “Go out the back, call Scott.”

Lydia immediately hops off the desk, purse slung over her shoulder and disappears behind a reed curtain separating the storefront from the stockroom. She doesn't ask pointless questions; she's heard that strained tenor in Stiles' voice too many times to waste time doing anything other than what he tells her.

“That’s not necessary.”

Stiles nearly jumps out of his fucking skin.

Wolf hearing; something he still can’t quite manage to wrap his mind around or effectively cheat. He turns on the wolf; it keeps a distance from him, as well it _goddamn_ _should_. His fear is immediate, the same fear that ignites in proximity to any wolf that isn’t Scott. A phantom sliver of pain brushes his back, brushes the jagged scar tissue gouged into his flesh.

“Whatta you want?” he demands. Jesus. It’s a Hale, he just can’t remember which one. Not that there are many of them left, but his mind is a panicked scramble. All he knows is it’s not Peter, which doesn’t make it any better. Stiles’ heart slams itself against his ribs. He can’t breathe.

“I came to apologize.”

A choked sort of laugh shatters in Stiles’ throat, “Yeah? Great. Please leave.”

The wolf cocks his head, dark brow lifting. A born wolf. All the Hales are, but he looks it more than the others, maybe even more than Peter. His teeth and plains of his face are too sharp to be human. And his eyes – they’re a little too far apart and husky, two pools of shifting turquoise - or green? They're terrible and breathtaking and he wants to look away, but dear God how are eyes like that possible?

“Isaac won’t lose his temper again.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind the next time we hang out," Stiles stammers.

He doesn’t look impressed with Stiles’ lip. He says, “Scott has my phone number. If any of my pack steps out of line again or if you see the one we're looking for, I want to know.”

“You got it, big guy,” Stiles says, arms crossed tight over his chest; protectively, he thinks grimly. As if curling into a ball would save him from a wolf like this.

His eyes roam over Stiles in a way that is so far from socially – humanly – acceptable. Stiles grinds his teeth for want of anything else to do. He wants to fidget, but he doesn’t dare move. He knows the wolf can sense his unease, can smell his fear; not that just seeing the look on Stiles' face isn't enough. But he doesn't seem swayed by any of it. He's curious, if anything, quizzical as a starling. 

The wolf lingers a moment longer than he should expression changing somehow, unwavering eyes on Stiles, eyes on him like – shit, he doesn’t even know what. There is nothing about that face Stiles can interpret with human language. Finally, he turns and walks out and his suffocating presence drains out after him.

Stiles lets go of his breath and scrubs his face. He falls heavily back on the counter.

 

Minutes later Scott is crashing through the carved hazel doors, stitched with worry, Lydia on his heels.

“Dude!” he cries grabbing Stiles’ shoulder. He must have run straight from work; he’s in a ratty t-shirt and stinks of tar. “What happened?”

“One of the Hales,” Stiles says, trying to sound unaffected and failing miserably even to his ears, “It’s fine, he just came to say sorry about what happened at the bar; but, like what the fuck, since when do they give a shit?”

“Dude, I forgot to tell you,” Scott says, “The other night, it’s Peter’s nephew that’s hunting the rogue wolf – I mean, Peter asked him to, but Isaac and Boyd are _his_ betas. He’s an alpha too.”

“What?” asks Lydia, face scrunched.

“Yeah, I guess he settled some border dispute a few years back and sort of, killed an alpha, took their power by mistake. Erica says Peter’s pissed as hell over it, but, I mean, there’s really not much he can do, so his nephew, Derek, left Hollow Downs so there wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Scotty,” Stiles says waving his hands to try and sift through the barrage of information, “How the hell did you _forget_ to tell me there’s _two_ alphas in town? Me, weak, skinny human already on Peter Hale’s shit list – and did you say that the giant wolfman that just came in here was _Derek_ fucking Hale?”

“Tall, dark hair?” Scott asks.

“ _Yes."_

“Yeah, that was him.”

“Oh my _god_.” He sits back on the register. Well, his legs give out and he sort falls back on to it.

“Derek Hale wasn’t that much older than us,” says Lydia slowly, “he graduated a couple years before we were freshman, I remember seeing him around the school, but he wasn’t very big.”

“Trust me Lyds, he's really leaned into this whole wolf thing,” says Stiles. He hadn’t recognized Derek in the slightest and Lydia was right. He _had_ seen Derek Hale before – gangly, quiet, shy Derek that liked to visit with his teachers. The thing that just sauntered into Bazaar was a full head taller and built like a damn derby horse. Do wolves hit puberty late or, like, twice? 

_Two Hale alphas._

“It’s ok dude,” Scott says, patting his back, “Derek won’t mess with you, he’s not like that. I mean, even if Peter….,” but Scott doesn’t finish that statement. Stiles won’t finish it either.

He calls Gumma and Scott drives him home early when his replacement turns up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I'm Derek 'incapable of reading social cues' Hale. This was probably my favorite part to write. I didn't want to get overblown with Derek and Stiles meeting. It took a while to talk myself out of Stiles being daringly rescued from a dragon or some shit. 
> 
> So. Mama Mercy. Gumma isn't exactly a Voodoo Queen, but she does have a lot of the spiritual insight and know how that a Voodoo Queen would have. She's meant to be a cross between a traiteur and a Queen. And while the Stilinski family isn't huge she is also the matriarch. Most people in town know she goes by the pseudonym Mama Mercy, a name that's been handed down for generations regardless of gender, but the point behind the name is to shield the rest of the family from those who deem the practices 'devil work'. There aren't many presently, but she continues to use that name as more of a tradition. And in the reading/research/web browsing, let's be real, voodoo was so ingrained into society back in Marie Laveau's day that she drew in mass crowds of poor people of every race as well as wealthy businessmen and planters. In my mind, the name Mama Mercy kind of harkens back to the very early days before the Stilinskis actually set foot in Louisiana, back when Europeans were still burning and drowning witches. 
> 
> Basically what I'm getting at here is that Stiles' grandmother is magical Batman.


	4. Trash

Chris Argent is at the house when he gets there.

_Super._

He and John are talking on the back deck when Stiles is dropped off. He gives Gumma a kiss in the living room where she’s sunk into her easy chair watching her stories.

“Miałaś dobry dzień?” she asks, cupping his cheeks. He nods and her leathery face widens into a doting smile, “Dobry chłopak.”

He grabs a cream soda from the fridge and drifts out on to the deck.

“Hey ya, kid,” his dad calls. Chris Argent watches him in a way that’s not much different from the way Derek Hale looked on him, except this is frigid, not curious. Stiles glares right back.

“Chris came pretty close to bagging our wolf.”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Stiles says wryly and John scruffs his hair. It’s partly playful, partly a rough reminder to watch his tongue in front of company.

“It’s as big as you said,” Chris tells him evenly, though it's plain to see that Stiles being right about anything grates him, “And there weren’t any animal bones in its droppings.”

“Did you – ah – find one big pile of shit?” Stiles asks channeling his inner Goldbloom.

“Yes, Stiles, I did.”

“You were also right that it’s not hunting,” John says firmly, dissuading him from any more outbursts.

“It’s malnourished from what I can tell," puts in Chris, "even if the food supply is being limited, an animal that big needs a protein-rich diet. I doubt it's getting its necessary vitamins from the trash.” At that Chris almost sounds disappointed. He’s a hunter after all, not just dangerous underworlders, but game. There's no point hunting a sick animal, no honor or whatever hunters pride themselves on. It puts Stiles at ease a fraction. Unless it _is_ rabid, Chris Argent looks more likely to catch it and bring it to a vet rather than stuff and mount it.

“I’ll need some time to organize a trapping party; this isn’t a one-person operation. It might be underfed and tired, but I won’t take the chance of cornering it and having it go savage.”

“The Station’s resources are at your disposal if you need them,” offers John and Chris gives a curt nod.

“Just have the kennels cleared out and ready. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to move.”

“Great, thank you, Chris.”

Chris nods again and shows himself out.

“He found it on the first try, you believe that?” chuckles John, “Them Hale puppies could stand to learn a thing or two from that man.”

Stiles huffs, “Your bizarre man-crush on Chris Argent is unsettling for a number of reasons.”

“I just appreciate the man’s work ethic’s all.”

“You work’n?” Stiles asks around his soda.

“Yeah, won’t be home ‘til late, kiddo, don’t wait up.”

Stiles decides not to mention Derek Hale. It’ll only make John worry and he doesn’t need that right now. He gives his dad a long hug instead and tells him to be safe.

 

Stiles stirs the stew pot with less enthusiasm than usual. He’s not willing to let himself think about any of it, he can process this clusterfuck when it’s over. He does not have the wherewithal to do anything about it now, so he makes dinner like he does every night. Cooking isn't terribly hard, just time consuming; Gumma is too old to stand at the stove for too long and his dad doesn’t get home until late most nights.

Just because it's difficult for her to cook much anymore doesn’t stop her from barking instructions every once and a while. She sits at the kitchen table, spicy cigar in one hand, newspaper spread flat over the surface. She absently flicks ashes into the tiny clay ashtray Stiles had made her when he was a kid.

Maybe she senses his anxiety, or maybe she saw him pop extra Adderall even though it’s well past the hour when he should still be taking it. Whatever the reason, she doesn’t hover tonight.

“Did you finish stocking?” she asks, but her half-moon spectacles still graze the evening paper.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good boy.”

And that’s it. She doesn’t say anything when he cracks extra pepper into the pot.

He counts the mixing spoon's revolutions. Counting helps the anxiety, but every time his mind starts to wander all he sees are those haunting eyes. Which, his life is not the paranormal romance section of every Barnes and Noble in creation, and he's disgusted by the walking cliché he's been forced into for the last few hours. Despite his mental commands, his scattered brain continually skips back to that stare just to spite him.

He pushes a steady, if slightly annoyed, breath through his nose and folds the bubbling stew over on itself.

He and Gumma sit in comfortable silence, a Solomon Burke record playing softly in the next room.

 

 

The placidity is broken by a crash in the backyard; Gumma’s gardening tools clatter together as they fall. Stiles locks eyes with her and then darts into the den. He returns pushing wolfsbane rounds into the chamber of his father’s rifle.

Gumma’s already shuffled over the baseboard to recover a pot of mountain ash. She’s drawn up a handful of black powder and throws it. It’s too late to surround the whole house. It doesn’t matter. Stiles’ dad won’t be home until after midnight and whatever’s out there will be scared off or dead in the next few minutes.

Stiles throws open the back door and levels the rifle into the gloom. He steps into the grass. Jesus, he can’t see worth a fuck. The circle of light shining down from above the door hardly pushes back the pitch.

The trash cans rattle and Stiles wheels on them. Darkness. Nothing but shadows. He knows where the bins should be and aims in that general direction. One of them has been toppled. Garbage litters the ground; mostly wrappers and newspapers, things that have been picked over.

He breathes.

It’s here. The wolf. No more garbage buffets in town. He doesn’t want to kill it, but he will if he has to.  He tries to steady his breath. There's a person in there; someone who needs help. He has to believe that.

“You probably ain’t scared of a bullet,” he mutters, but he knows the thing can hear him, “but trust me, you never been shot by this kinda bullet.” Stilinski wolfsbane mixes aren't the run of the mill kit of oils and powders. The concoction in his shells hits like a cannonball and they don't heal – at all. Not without a Stilinski to set them right.

Silence.

If it’s still there, he knows exactly where it is. There’s a narrow space behind the trash cans between the side of the house and shed. The covey is blocked off by an eight-foot fence. He’d have heard it try to climb over if it tried to leave.

At least he really fucking hopes so.

“You can git and I won’t shoot, understand?” It’s his best cop voice.

Stiles nearly shits himself when yellow eyes light up in the alcove, right where he thought they might. The gaze is high off the ground, not high enough for a human, but certainly too fucking high for a normal animal. He takes a steadying breath. He doesn’t know enough about this True Shift shit, doesn’t know if that thing can even understand him.

Before Scott got control it didn’t matter what Stiles said, there was only the wolf to hear him. And this thing is all beast.

It’s Chris Argent’s problem now. Stiles isn’t so naïve that he thinks he can convince it to come out of the Shift; he can't help it here. He needs to frighten it away.

“I swear I won’t hurt you if you just leave,” he tells it. The eyes shift observantly; it watches him like the predator it is. Jesus. It doesn’t know he’s saying.

“Ok,” he says backing up, lowering the gun a fraction, hoping that the movement will make him less threatening. A normal were is one thing, but this? A couple shells won’t stop that thing if it decides to charge. It could just be paranoia, but fuck this. Fuck that thing.

“Imma go back in, real slow; I ain’t gonna hurt you. Have all the trash you want.”

The cans tremor and heavy breath chuffs out behind them. He freezes.

“It’s ok,” he says, one hand coming up, “It’s ok, we’re ok. I’m-I’m not moving.”

The eyes disappear for a moment. A low whine comes from the dark pit. Its big body must be turning circles, pushing against the slats of the siding and trash cans. It’s nervous.

Stiles’ stomach liquefies. Why is the giant, scary monster afraid? He grips the rifle tighter but is still too terrified to look away from the shadows.

“Can’t be me make’n you jumpy,” he mutters, trembling, “Help me out, buddy, what’s got you outta sorts?"

Footfalls pound the ground on the other side of the fence and suddenly _Isaac_ , wolfed out, eyes burning, appears at the top of it roaring. The wolf in the shadows lets out a cry and bolts.

 It’s massive, twice the size of a regular gray wolf. It charges at Stiles and he’s cemented in place by the sheer size of the monster. There’s something not right about it, something not entirely wolf-like. Its eyes are farther apart, more savage, more animal.

Arms loop his waist and pull him clear. The shock of being yanked makes his hand constrict. The rifle goes off and a grotesque scream of animalistic pain breaks the air.

Isaac leaps passed him giving chase. He isn’t alone. Boyd and a blonde woman, coming around the opposite side of the house, racing in the direction of their quarry.

Before Stiles can process much more, he’s being lifted and set on his feet. Broad hands lay flat across his belly and chest keeping him upright for the most part, though his feet are stacked inelegantly over each other. He’s limp against whoever pulled him to safety, tucked into their side away from the threat and he jerks out of their grasp once he deduces exactly who he’s being shielded by, bringing the rifle around as he struggles to regain himself.

“ _Don’t touch me_!” He's shaking with too much adrenaline. The gun quakes in his unsteady hands.

“The hell are you thinking?” Derek snaps, unfazed by the wolfsbane loaded barrel trained on his head, his eyes smoldering crimson.

“Me? _ME_? I’m thinking there’s a deranged wolf on the loose sniffing around my house and my gramma!”

“And you were going to _shoot it_?” Derek asks skeptically.

“Please, tell me what you’re fucking suggestion is, I’m all ears!”

“If we hadn’t been tracking it you’d –,”

Stiles drops the rifle to his side, “It only ran at me when your merry band of assholes showed up! It was tryna get away! What the fuck is really going on? Because that thing was digging around in my trash for scraps; it didn’t even growl at me!”

He’d instantly side with that creature over Peter’s kin any day. Nothing about this is right, _nothing_.

Derek’s eyebrows tense complicatedly. Christ, he should have a user manual on him at all times. His eyes trace the ground and when they come back up he asks, “How long were you out here.”

A Hale that listens. Imagine that. Stiles forces out even breaths. His heart’s still beating painfully hard.

“I dunno, a couple minutes.”

“It wasn’t doing anything else?”

Stiles’ arms flap in a gesture he hopes conveys how done he is with this whole day. Derek’s head wrenches to the side. He hears something Stiles doesn’t – wait, no, Stiles does hear it. Howling. Signaling to rest of the pack.

He’d shot the wolf by accident; it's lame, catchable. Dread floods his gut. He may not have been willing to take chances with such a big predator, but that didn’t change the fact that it had been scared. Scared of the pack – the _Hale_ pack – pursuing it. There may have been a lot of political wolf shit he didn’t understand, and he could see how a rogue animal wandering into marked territory would chafe some asses, but between the animal proof dumpsters and Peter’s focus on catching it, there wasn’t a force on earth that could convince Stiles that this was all as innocent as the Hales would have him believe.

He assumes the woman that got mauled had only been attacked because she was hunting it. They can’t really be expecting to bring a creature _they_ provoked in the first place to any kind of justice.

Stiles glares at Derek.

“Stay here,” Derek orders, pointing at him to get the message across.

“Get _fucked_ ,” he snaps back. Antagonizing someone he finds so blinding terrifying just as they walk into endarkened woods is not exactly the smartest thing he's ever done, but he can't help himself. He's rubbed raw with nerves. He follows Derek in, eyes affixed to his strong back, refusing to lose track of him in the darkness.

 

They find Derek’s pack down by the creek. Enough moonlight spills off the water to for Stiles to see, drenching the woods in spectral silver.

The pack has backed something into a thicket of briars.

Stiles grabs Derek's elbow as they get closer. Probably not a great idea, but he can barely function he’s so overstimulated by his medicine and the excitement. He should probably also not be holding a firearm.

“What does Peter want with it?” he demands with as much intimidation as he can muster. Derek's arm is hot like he's running a temperature. Scott is always pretty warm, maybe Derek's so feverish to the touch because he's alpha? Why hadn't Stiles paid any attention when Gumma tried to teach him this stuff? Derek's gaze flickers from Stiles’ hand to his eyes until he lets go.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m human, not stupid. This isn’t about territory, is it?”

Derek’s frown deepens somehow, “It _is_ about territory. Now isn’t exactly a great time to try explaining the complexities of our social structure to you. Stay out of the way.”

Gritting his jaw Stiles says, “You’re not gonna hurt it.”

A shadow passes over Derek’s face. It’s the first emotion Stiles can read on him, because he’s seen that look too many times before. So Derek knows some shit that’s none of his business.

Fine.

It doesn’t change the fact that Stiles will put a bullet in any of them that lay a finger that wolf. He cocks the rifle loudly, reminding them that he’s there.

He trails Derek at a distance. The pack splits for their alpha. Stiles doesn't really know the other two, and really he didn’t know Boyd very well, but there's nothing about his former classmate that he recognizes. Boyd's the only one of Derek's betas not completely taken over by the wolf; only his eyes are glowing as he watches their prey steadily.

Stiles had heard the stray rumors here and there about Boyd's home life. Alcoholic dad, absent mom, little sister disappeared when she was five. He'd been forced to grow up so fast as a kid he didn't have time for high school bullshit and Stiles always sort of admired his self-possession from afar. That control remains, but it's clear he's been remade. Not just by the bite. He's willingly shed his human skin, his past life and become something better.

Scott never wanted the bite, it was imposed on him. To him it was evil; it stripped away the life he wanted and threw him into a state being that was completely unknown. Stiles' eyes go back to Derek and he wonders what it would have been like if Derek had bitten Scott instead of Peter. Would he have guided Scott? Would it have made any difference at all?

It's obvious what he's done for Boyd, that he's helped him; even if Stiles' bias against the Hales doesn't want to give him so much credit. Boyd looks healthier, which might just be the wolf spirit, but he's also standing straighter, confident set to his shoulders. Frowning, Stiles returns his focus to the situation at hand.

They’ve cornered the monster in the briars, but it’s not a monster anymore.

She’s shifted, naked and filthy, scarlet sheeting down from the gunshot wound in her thigh. The wolfsbane works up in a smoky blue cloud around the injury. Pangs of guilt slide up and down Stiles’ spine. The hole in her leg is a crater; wider than the bullet itself because of the flesh-devouring acidic properties of the Stilinski wolfsbane. Stiles has been experimenting with aconite recently and never thought he'd regret his careless tinkering so soon.

He's seen wolves suffer the effects of coming in contact with it before, the ones slack-jawed and dead and those that were patched up, but he's never been responsible for one. If he'd hit an artery she would be dead already. It'll kill her soon if he doesn't get her to Gumma. 

Jesus fuck, she's just a kid.

She cowers, tiny and trembling in the moonlight, pressing into the pickers to get away.

Derek crouches a few paces back from her.

“Can you understand me?” Derek asks. She looks human, but maybe there’s a delay in motor skills after embodying the animal completely and for so long. She’s still making wolf sounds, little terrified whimpers.

“We aren’t going to hurt you,” he says softly.

Yeah, until five seconds ago they were ready to rip her fucking head off.

He slinks a little closer and she flinches into the thorns. Her cry makes Stiles’ toes curl.

“Ok, ok,” mumbles Derek, “You don’t have to be afraid. We want to help you. Can you tell me your name?”

Stiles didn’t think it was possible for her to make herself any smaller.

She’s a wolf. She’s smelling four strange wolves that have been relentlessly chasing her. Derek’s gentle words aren’t going to calm her down now. Stiles sets the rifle down. They need to move her, get her help, _now._

He gets low, squatting beside Derek.

“Hey,” he says, imitating his dad’s easy tone, “Remember me, big bad wolf?” He doesn’t expect a response and doesn’t get one. “What’re you doing out here, kiddo?" He tries to channel his dad, do what Sheriff Stilinski would do to get her out of here, "I know your freaking out. I’m-I'm freaking out too; I’m so sorry I shot you, it was an accident. I know it hurts real bad, honey." He swallows back the surge of tears that crashes through him. Crying won't fix this. He suppresses it, his throat in knots. Derek's eyes slant over him briefly; he's still stony, but his gaze is cooling, a dab of cold water on Stiles' over boiling guilt.

Stiles clears his throat and continues, "You gotta let us see to it, ok? My Gumma’s back at the house; she’s got lots of medicine for people like you; sewn up much worse. We got food too, I mean, my gumbo’s most likely burned to shit by now, but I’m a good cook. If you think my trash was good, sweety, wait ‘til you have the real thing.”

Stiles leans toward Derek, feels a stripe of the wolf's heat along the side of face and arm and whispers, “Dude, call them off.”

Derek regards him a moment and then nods, gesturing for his pack to back up. They do more than take a few steps back. All three retreat into the rushes by Boyd's lead. 

“I’m Stiles,” Stiles says, “my terrifying friend is Derek; he looks growly and mean, but I’m pretty sure he’s not nearly as constipated as he seems. And also he's sorry for chase'n you every which place like a psycho ex-boyfriend.” Derek’s heavy gaze weights him and somehow Stiles knows exactly what it looks like without having to meet his eyes. The word murderous comes to mind. “What’s your name?”

A question floats up from the huddle of limbs and grime, “D-Derek?” Her voice is small and stricken. It sounds exactly the way he thought it would and still he’s sickened by it, by the bitter fear the Hales put in her.

“Uh,” Stiles glances at Derek whose face has kneaded itself, once again, into a frown, “Yeeeah. He’s been looking for you.”

Glowing yellow eyes peek out from over her arm. Derek tenses at the sight of them. They’re different from Scott’s eyes. His eyes are amber when the wolf presses the surface; it’s not a trick of the light as he'd assumed earlier, the girl’s eyes are yellow.

“Gaby?” Derek murmurs. It’s faint, but not to a wolf.

“Derek,” she sobs, unraveling, falling forward. She’s covered in cuts from the pickers. There’s so much wolfsbane in her system she’s not healing. Derek’s at her side in the next instant, cradling her up against his chest. She clings to him, racked with sobs; holds on to him like he’s life itself, the only thing anchoring her to this place.

Derek lifts her up and starts silently back towards the house.

“You know her?” Stiles asks as he walks past.

"My cousin,” Derek bites out.

Derek’s face is contorted darkly by the implications of what he just said aloud. Stiles never wants that kind of explicit hatred turned on him.

Derek was hunting his own family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive my Polish. Any that appears here will probably be wildly inaccurate. Google Translate is my only Polish speaking friend. If you know any Polish, please feel free to correct it in the comments so I can make revisions. 
> 
> Gaby, Gaby, Gaby, Gaby. Gaby was an emotionally difficult character to write. I get very attached to my original characters, (nobody wants bad thing to happen to their imagination babies!) but I also knew from the jump what she was going to endure before actually typing it out. I wanted to write her the way Malia Tate should have been portrayed. I think a lot of people agree that the introduction of Malia's character was sort of the beginning of the end. As Gaby develops I hope you'll agree that a character like Malia wouldn't all of a sudden be well adjusted to human society, that she would not be able to consent to sex and would more than likely still be suffering the affects of PTSD/depression/anxiety etc. 
> 
> So, really, the next chapter is not going to be a fun one. The a/b/o stuff mentioned at the beginning? This is where it starts. 
> 
> There won't be an update next week, hence the double update this weekend, but Stay will resume 08/21.


	5. Heat

Gumma tends to the girl in the living room. She’s mostly unconscious with poisoning, but she’ll live. She barely whimpers as the old lady burns the last of the wolfsbane out of her veins. The pack hovers nervously outside. Derek wouldn't let them follow him in. A few harsh orders leave them listlessly waiting for his return. It’s hard not to feel bad for them when none of them knew; it’s none of their faults.

Despite his trepidation, Stiles is a hospitable southern host. While Gumma does her work, he throws together sandwiches and sweet tea for the pack. Boyd, who seems to be second in command in Derek's absence, accepts the platter and pitcher for them. He even says thank you. Stiles rummages through the kitchen, nervously wiping down the counters, putting things away, trying to be useful, but Gumma keeps the place spotless for the most part. 

Having run out of things to do – and he desperately needs to be distracted –  he fishes a bottle of whiskey from his dad’s liquor cabinet and pours out a couple of glasses.

“Ice?” he asks. Derek’s not listening, he’s leaning on the counter watching alertly as Gumma tweezes out pickers from his cousin’s skin. He absently wipes his nose every few minutes. There's mountain ash is just about every surface of the house. It makes Scott antsy, itchy. Derek looks like he falling prey to a pollen allergy.

“ _Dude_ ,” Stiles says firmly. His head comes to the side but he doesn’t turn. “Bubba, you need a drink. She’s plenty safe with Gumma.”

“Alcohol doesn-,”

Stiles jostles a glass vial of powdered wolfsbane, a tired smile on his lips. It's not the atomic kind they put in their rifle rounds. The worst this stuff is in large quantities is a diuretic, but it's potent enough to loosen up a wolfy digestive tract so it can absorb liquor. Scott is smitten with it.

“Not my first rodeo, pissedwolf.”

He pours out a couple of tumblers and stirs a pinch of the powder into Derek’s.

“I’m assuming Peter knows who she is,” Stiles says carefully, sliding the glass across the counter. Derek takes it after moment and nods before knocking the whole thing back. He hisses at the burn, exposing sharp, white teeth. Stiles refills it without needing to be asked.

“Got any theories as to why she was tryna get away from him?”

Stiles won’t play dumb. He knows Peter and Peter sure as hell knew that girl wasn’t just some random wolf trying to cross the territory. The Hales don’t have much family left after the fire that decimated their ancestral home. Even Stiles knows every Hale was accounted for after that night, even the ones not in the house.

“It’s not a theory,” Derek says quietly and puts back the shot. Dutifully, Stiles is ready to make him another. He’s not like the others. The surviving pack members have a mean streak a mile wide, just the way Peter likes. Vicious, but controllable. Derek doesn’t seem to quite fit into that category.

Stiles tries to remember him in high school. They'd never spoken, but the town was so small everyone revolved around everyone else at one time or another. He'd seen Derek around the language halls, talking quietly with teachers. His family's death was fresher then, it left its marks on him, but even so he was still gentle in a way the others had forgotten how to be. Maybe he haunted the school corridors to get away from them, away from the ruin.

Being no stranger to that kind of loss or to Peter's particular brand of fuck-with-ery, Stiles decides he is more than capable of getting Derek Hale as drunk as he needs to be. Being on the side of a Hale – or, rather, drinking with one – a concept he would have completely rejected only just that morning, feels alien, but not completely wrong.

“She’s an omega,” Derek says and wipes his mouth with his wrist.

“A lone wolf?”

Derek shakes his head. He sips the whiskey this time and sniffs absently. He says more like he's talking to himself than Stiles, “Her whole pack has the True Shift.”

Stiles resists the urge to touch him, comfort him in some way. The anger perched in Derek's features is dredged up from a place he can’t stand to see anyone go. But he does nothing. Derek’s a Hale. That’s not something he’ll ever be naïve enough to overlook. Stiles slams back his drink and pours another.

“Gaby being an omega just,” Derek snorts a miserable noise and doesn’t finish.

“What do you mean?”

“She's a breeder,” Derek rubs his face with one hand.

Stiles is not near drunk enough for this.

“You need to call Deaton,” Stiles says.

“I can't,” Derek’s teeth graze his bottom lip. Right. Deaton is the Hale emissary, but technically while Derek is an alpha, he's not _the_ alpha. Whether or not he wants to be, Alan Deaton is wedged right under Peter's thumb. After a few tense seconds, Derek mutters, “I know a doctor in Mobile, but it’ll take her time to get here.”

“Lydia,” Stiles says suddenly and digs through his pants for his phone, “Lydia’s pre-med, her and Gumma can cover it for now. Gimme a sec.”

Stiles taps her contact information and steps from the counter while it rings.

 

***

Derek watches him move to stand by the back door. His scent follows him, one overshadowed by the acrid note of fear. It’s lessened slightly but still weaves the air. Derek can see his scars. They poke out of the collar of his shirt at the nape of his neck. He had been hoping it was an exaggeration, but Peter doesn’t exaggerate. Stiles is talking, saying something fast-paced, but he’s not listening. Huge rosin colored eyes dance over Derek nervously.

He’s been looking too long and turns away. He doesn't spend much time with humans, they don't exactly have a lot to offer him. He forgets that they don't perceive staring as reassuring or protective, but intrusive.

The little old woman hobbles to him, pushing up her glasses. Stiles looks just like her, and maybe when his scent isn't being perforated by his fear of wolves, he smells like her too. His grandmother's scent is powerful. The air around her is charged with energy. She rests a knobby hand on his arm in the careless way old people do and he forces himself not to recoil. Regardless of what she is, she has been generous without question, opened her home to them immediately and asked nothing in return. He won't allow his family's prejudice to blot out her kindness.

“Go sit with her, szczeniak,” he doesn’t know what the word means but knows it’s not Creole. The term mixes funnily with her thick accent. He nods and goes to the couch. He can’t think. It’s not the heavy-handed shots of liquor.

 The last time he saw Gaby she was eight and shy and didn’t want to play with the other kids. She just wanted him to read her stories and not the wolf fairytales. She liked Golden Books; Scuffy the Tugboat and Little Red Hen. She liked napping in his lap and coloring.

She isn't supposed to be here; she's supposed to be with her mother’s family in Savannah.

Rage makes him tremble, makes his wolf snarl and spit and twist inside of him. He’s going to kill something.

Peter is a lot of things, a lot of terrible, selfish things, but this? _This_? The hatred is so pure, so unbridled by thought.

“Derek?”

Her wounds are starting to heal. The old woman’s rubbed some kind of paste on her thigh and already the wolfsbane bullet hole is a pinkening scar. He’s never seen a wound like that close this fast. Gaby’s face is red, slick with tears, but she isn’t sobbing like before. There’s no hitch in her voice even though droplets still tumble down her cheeks.

He tries to smile at her and knows how it looks, knows the type of expression it is and wishes he could force out something better. The helplessness is a living, gnarled thing. He’s felt this crippling feeling before when he buried his parents, but that, at least, was final, even if he didn’t know it at the time.

Gaby’s still here, still alive and mangled and he can’t do a fucking thing about it.

“My,” she wipes her nose on the shirt Stiles loaned her. Her throat bobs and there’s a clicking sound that falls out of it. Her smells are all wrong; he hadn’t once recognized it while they tracked, not even when she was right in front of him. When he scented her as a baby she smelled so bright; Cora said it was like Pop Rocks in her nose. This smell rolling off her now is heavy and sour, a shadowed smell, a hurting smell.

He wants to scent mark her, cover her in himself just to make it go away.

“Heat,” she croaks. She hasn’t looked him in the eye once. She was shy, but never submissive. A submissive omega is so archaic, so disgusting, he doesn’t know how to react. Nothing else makes its way out of her. Nothing else has to. Derek’s stomach drops out through his feet.

He swallows, “Ok,” he says, nodding, “Ok, that’s ok. Whatever you want to do, we’ll do it. Stiles is calling a doctor right now.”

The word 'doctor' breaks her. She folds in on herself, shattering, and Derek’s pushes himself on to the couch and wraps her in against him. He’s so useless, he doesn’t know what else he can do other than hold her together by sheer force of will. If this is all he has then he won’t let go even if the world burns down around them. Once he gets her through this, once he brings her back from the edge, he’s going to rip their uncle’s heart out of his chest.

“I don’t want it,” she sobs into his shoulder, “I don’t, I, pl-ease don’t make me-,”

Derek buries his face in her hair. It’s lank with sweat and grit. He’s going to scream.

“No, Little Paw,” he says evenly, but tears slip from the corners of his eyes, “No, we’ll make it go away.”

 

***

 

Lydia and Gumma examine her. The pregnancy tests are inconclusive; something in wolf urine keeps throwing off the results. The only way to be certain is by blood test, but Lydia doesn’t have what she needs to take a sample. Gumma pats Gaby’s cheek, eyes twinkling gently. She looks at Stiles like that when he's sick.

“My grandmother,” she says, “had many girls come to her for things like this. Wolf girls, too. If you are sure, I have special tea. The taste is like shit, but if you are carrying, you will not be anymore.”

Gaby just nods. She doesn’t cry anymore. Her eyes are open, but she isn’t awake.

Stiles stands in the living room archway. There’s nothing he can do. At least Lydia tried, has a useful skill. But he’s pointless. Just another fucking victim of the Hale family. He should start a club. Most of the thin skin on his bottom lip has been peeled off by his teeth. Tastes of blood have been running over his tongue for the last hour.

He shakes out of his stupor when Gumma ushers him to the kitchen to put on the kettle and help her grind herbs. It takes time to prepare. As he works he catches glimpses of Derek; he’s only let Gaby go long enough for Lydia to take her to the bathroom. He sits behind her, nestling her back against him, arms fastening her in, face hidden in her neck.

She’s miles away, she can't feel anything anymore. Most people worry when they see someone go catatonic, but Stiles knows just how necessary that kind of quiet is sometimes.

There’s nothing hurting her now.

 

Derek helps her drink the tea. They both hold the cup and she drinks until it’s gone.

 

“She has to stay here,” Derek says mechanically.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees nodding and rubbing exhaustion from his eyes, “I’ll,” he yawns, “I’ll close the ash line when you leave. Gimme your phone.”

Derek hands it over and Stiles saves his number in the contacts, “Text me.”

He leaves it open-ended. Derek has his pack, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of person with many friends. The only response he gets is a curt nod, but Derek isn’t looking at him. He doesn’t want to go; he can’t tear his attention off where Gaby dozes on the couch and Gumma brushing her hair.

They both know why he can’t stay. Any wolf that comes looking comes following his scent, will find Gaby’s. Stiles assumes Derek has a plan for scrubbing himself down before he or his pack go anywhere near the Den.

“Contrary to tonight’s events,” Stiles continues, “I’m a good shot. Anyone that gets close to this house’ll get two wolfsbane slugs up the ass.”

In this light, Derek’s eyes are green and ruined. He’s made of porcelain no matter how hard he tries not to be. Stiles wants him to stay, not for Gaby’s sake, but for Derek's own. Either Derek’s going to splinter into fragments alone or he’s going to do something reckless, dangerous. 

Stiles touches his shoulder. He can’t tell Derek what to do, so he doesn’t try.

“Be careful,” he tells him and hopes it’s enough to prevent him from trying anything too profoundly stupid.

Mouth compressed into a hard line, Derek nods.

Jesus, he’s going to get himself killed. Stiles is always talking, but for the life of him he can’t come up with something better to explain why Derek needs to let this go, just for tonight, just until they figure out what to do. Peter Hale has to fucking die, on that they can agree and Stiles will be right next to Derek when they castrate him. But now Stiles is overwhelmed with a completely illogical need to lock down this house and everyone in it.

Keep them all safe, keep them all here.

To protect Derek. An alpha; someone he doesn’t even know; part of a family he despises only because he’s so fucking terrified of them.

He knows where Derek’s head is going with this. How long has Gaby been in Peter’s house? How many times has Derek walked by a closed room she was in? He couldn’t have known, but that doesn’t matter to a guilt-riddled mind, does it? There’s no logic to this. Not for Derek. Certainly not for Gaby.

“Just-,” he supposes whatever was going to pour out of him next would be ineffectual garbage, but he forgets it immediately when Derek's fingers tips graze his elbow, his palm sliding flush over Stiles' skin until closing completely around his arm. Derek’s heat is there, everywhere, and then gone as he walks out the door. Three sets of feet follow him off the porch and into the night.

Stiles touches his elbow, still noticeably warmer with the phantom of Derek's handprint. It didn’t hurt. He had tensed expecting it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized that the date i scheduled Stay to resume was... was wrong. Humbly, my bad. 
> 
> I don't really have any notes this week, mostly because my eggs are scrambled from the trip, but I'd love to hear from anyone who cares to leave comments or questions. And again, if anyone speaks Polish, please feel free to swat me with the newspaper of your corrections.


	6. Touch

Days with no word and it’s torture. Stiles is sick in the toilet on the second morning. Anxiety is churning his stomach to bile. He’s expecting wolves at his front door, clambering to drag Gaby away and slash his family’s throats, or for his father to mention dragging Derek Hale’s corpse out of the river over dinner.

Scott tells him he hasn’t been muscled into anymore hunting excursions and that only frightens Stiles more. Why aren’t they pretending to hunt Gaby? Does that mean Peter knows?

 

He gives his phone to Gumma when she's home to moderate his need to constantly check it every ten minutes. Each time the screen blinks on completely devoid of notifications his palms start to sweat. 

 

Gaby sleeps through most of it. She probably hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks. That first night, while Gumma was cleaning her up in the tub, she conked right out in the water. She’s skin and bones. The only time she’s not sleeping, she’s eating. Shoving down whatever Gumma makes as soon as it's in front of her.

And she doesn’t speak. Not really and no one expects her to. She’s traumatized and in a house of foreign smelling strangers. When she does occasionally pipe up, she’s worse than Derek. Never more than one or two words make it out of her at a time. But while Derek seems deliberately obstinate, Gaby is more thoughtful, like the words are all there, undulating in and out of order, but slip out carefully condensed.

Stiles won't leave the house while she's here. He doesn't pour over the reasons why; there's probably enough to fill a psychology textbook. He busies himself with scrubbing down every inch of the house, weeding the yard, trimming the tree outside his window. It doesn't eat up the days the way he had hoped. He's standing in the middle of a spotless house after only a day and a half.

 

Showering obsessively is sort of a side-effect his anxious episodes. It comes and goes. Being cooped up in his house he finds himself taking two a day. He steps under the steaming water and soon as the spray rinses over his arm, his breathing quickens. For a moment he swears he can feel Derek's hand cinched around his elbow. There's nothing there when he looks.

 

He’s lugging a garbage bag through the kitchen when he sees Gaby sitting quietly at the kitchen counter. Seeing her there makes him pause. She hasn’t left his room on her own before. Gumma usually fetches her to get her up and moving, gets her to help re-pot the house plants in the sunroom or some other mild task that helps to integrate her into the day-to-day.

Today Gumma is minding the store and Stiles’ dad is at work. Stiles had gone to check on her when he woke up to find her twisted up in a knot of sheets and decided not to bother her. He has to be positive, encouraging because this is good. Stiles feels himself lighten as he goes about emptying the trash.

“What’s up, Gaby?” he chirps.

Her eyes aren’t so different from Derek’s, but the color is on the opposite end of the spectrum. While Derek’s are a kaleidoscope of ever-changing pale colors, her’s are a dark, smoky; russet and yellow and green all covered in shadows. She doesn’t say anything, just watches him. The way she regards him now, even in a place as safe as his kitchen is the exact same way she observed him as the wolf. Not threatening, not necessarily afraid, but alert.

He doesn’t want to be scared of her. His brain, however, does what it always does to protect him. It fires off warnings, makes a trembling rattle of his spine. Stiles takes as discreet of a steadying breath as he can.

 _She is_ not _going to hurt you._ _She’s just not._

He forces his grin a little wider. “I’m almost done with this if you wanna watch TV or something.”

The immobile set of her jaw finally changes, melts into a demure smile. She looks down at the counter. He’s not sure what that means. She makes no move to get up or to speak, just continues to sit.

“Ok, uh, I’ll let you know when I’m done?” This is not awkward. Awkward isn’t the right word. It’s… it’s sort of sad. He realizes the tension here is coming from something gnarled, a place of passed wrongness. She’s not going to be perfectly functional after just a couple of days. He wants to be more help, but he knows that there’s no arrangement of words to make her better.

There hadn’t been for him; this is going to take time, maybe a hundred more strained conversations until she feels safe enough to engage him.

He goes about his chores; drags all the garbage down the drive. He figures he’ll clean out his Jeep while he’s there, and despite the heat, moving and being productive does take his mind off things. He wanders back into the house about two hours later.

Gaby is still at the counter when he returns, in the exact same spot. She hasn’t moved an inch since he left.

“Hey, Gaby?” he asks, cautiously, circling the counter. She meets his gaze, blankly, “You ok?”

She nods instantly in response.

“You, um, you don’t have to,” he’s trying so hard not to say the wrong thing but has no idea what might upset her, “you don’t have to sit here all day. Gumma has a lot of books and stuff, or you can mess around on my laptop if you want.” 

That close-lipped, smile pulls at her mouth again. She doesn’t want to do either of those. Right? That’s probably what that means.

“Or we could play video games? Me and Scott been collecting retro games forever, you literally have your pick of _everything_ ,” he laughs. Nothing. No response. If anything she seems uncomfortable, but can’t think of how to tell him. He bounces a couple more idea off of her, determined to keep her company until her stomach gives her away. A gurgled whine in her belly stops him mid-tangent and suddenly he’s feeling queasy himself.

She’s hungry.

She’s been sitting here for hours waiting to be fed. Gumma and John left early, and usually, it’s one of them that makes breakfast. They all assumed Gaby would feed herself when she was hungry. But she never asks for anything and doesn't seem to know how to do many things for herself. Either she doesn't know how, or she doesn't understand that she's allowed. Fuck, he should have known; he’s been so wrapped up in his own little selfish world of nerves he didn’t even stop to consider just how much help Gaby needs.

Stiles starts pulling eggs and veggies out of the fridge for a fry up without another word.

"How much spice can you handle?" Stiles asks as he chops up a couple of bell peppers. She smiles pleasantly, but she doesn't answer. "How about mild?" Her silence is chillingly obedient as if she'd eat a dead rat if he put it in front of her.

Stiles prods at the pile he's carved, grimacing. Suddenly it's not so hard to understand why she had been eating out of trash cans.  Peter forces people to see how painfully weak they are, how powerless. Stiles had gotten a taste compared to Gaby. She'd had to the courage, the wherewithal, to run when she saw an opening, but maybe even then it was too late. Prowling through the town and woods, even in the full shift, she hadn't realized she could provide for herself. She was wasting away and still hadn't tried to hunt.

Stiles' hand balls into a white fist at his side.

 

He’s in the shower on the second day, and the touch is probably psychosomatic, or some other big word that means _you need therapy,_ but it's there and it's burning and suddenly he can't keep his hands off himself. He's jerked off before, clearly. A lot. He's a healthy, red-blooded male. But this is like some sort of religious experience.

Depression saps the zest out of sensation. He really hasn't mustered up much momentum from the dried well of his sex drive. It hadn't been much a priority as of late; since he was released from the hospital, anyway. Maybe there had been a lazy stroke here and there, but this, it was like being struck by lightning. His brain tries to plow through the why of it; blaming anxiety, the need for release, the absence of intimacy – but the moment he grips his cock there is only the _feeling_.

It's not just his dick he needs to run his palms over; it's _everything_.

Pressure jumps in his stomach, mounting so furiously, with such force and speed, it’s like being a thirteen-year-old again. He's shaking, blearily watching the slide of his own fingers and the slick sheen of spray pelting his skin. His shoulder blades fall against the tiles behind him and he arches off the cool surface, free hand groping his thigh, his hip, trailing over his ass. He presses two fingers against his hole without penetrating, just enough to feel the presence until he can’t help himself and he’s bucking against his hand.

He feels the ghost heat he'd felt that night crouched beside Derek on the creek bed and he can’t control it. He comes embarrassingly fast, emitting a strangled sound, and his legs practically give out so that he's doubled over, shocky and panting. His fist beats the shower wall with the last ticks of orgasm.

The concurrent confusion to what just happened hits hard. He can't suppress the fact that the urge had been inspired by a wolf. As if that's not fucked up enough, it was because of a Hale and he's got no explanation for that substantial factor. Breathing hard, he files it away under a superficial heading. Derek's physically like nothing he's ever seen before. That's all it is. There's no emotion to it; his body is reacting instinctually, pulling on recent experience to slake the need to blow off steam.

He shuts off the water and towels off, still a little shaken.

 

Finally Stiles caves and bullies Derek’s number out of Scott, who asks too many fucking questions because he's an oblivious ass. This is the sweet prince Stiles has chosen as his hetero-life-mate and sometimes it takes insane willpower not to strangle him to death.

He can't explain Gaby's presence to Scott without explaining all of it, and as bad as it feels to omit truths from his best friend, he just can't go there. Instead, he plows through excuses splashed with intermittent sarcasm and light insults. After what feels like hours of pacing and being berated and accused of crushing on big, hot, scary Derek Hale the text comes through with his phone number.

Stiles dials it immediately. Gaby watches him from his bed. She’s piled under blankets, watching nervously, just as desperate to hear from Derek as he is.

“Your cousin’s a real fucking douche-canoe,” Stiles tells her as it rings. Since she doesn’t talk much, Stiles feels automatically inclined to make up enough conversation for the both of them. Actually, it’s a fairly satisfying relationship. “Three days. Three fucking days; what I’m I supposed to think? What are _you_ supposed to think?”

The call goes to voicemail and Stiles nearly has a fit. He angrily keys the number again, determined to keep at it until he gets what he wants.

“I’m Derek-fucking-Hale," he intones with a growly inflection, "here, take my cousin, while I fuck around chasing squirrels and sniffing dog-ass; I could literally be lying face down in a ditch right now, but fuck you, Stiles, I’m sure you’ll be fine on your own.”

Gaby’s face lightens, it's not exactly a smile, but he takes that as her approval of his imitation. She has impeccable taste.

“Stiles, not now-,”

“ _Where in_ blue hell _have you been_?!” Stiles demands. Gaby perks up, pushing the comforter down off her head, leaving her hair as erratic as it always seems to be. She looks like a frayed cue-tip from all of the static cling.

“I’m with a _realtor_ ,” Derek growls, _“Not now.”_

“Don’t fucking use alpha-voice on me, Hale, I'm _not_ one of your poky puppies. You talk to me right now, or I swear to god I will get Scott and hunt your little werewolf ass _down_!”

Gaby nods in staunch agreement. She's definitely got Hale blood, or at least, the Hale eyebrows. 

“I am in the middle of buying a _house_. _Not now_.” The call cuts off. Stiles stares at his phone.

Huh.

Does Zillow post supernatural listings? What would that be, like, derelict sewers and abandoned warehouses?

“You heard that?” Stiles asks. Gaby nods. “Ok, well, I feel a little shitty over how that went. How do you feel about it?”

“Shitty,” she affirms.

Stiles’ lips compress and he asks, “Wanna make cookies?”

Her answer is vigorous nodding.

 

“I mean is home buying even hard?” Stiles asks, licking cookie dough off a spoon. Their effort was valiant in his mind, but in the end, they both settled for cookie dough and Doritos and whatever other junk food Stiles could scrounge up from his various hiding places around the house.

His father had ferreted out a couple of his caches, but those were the _decoys_. Because Stiles is a genius and John Stilinski is predictable as shit. All the snacks he thought he was stealing from Stiles were actually low calorie and heart-healthy alternatives in real junk food bags.

One day he will find a productive outlet for his giant brain. One day.

Gaby shrugs. She’s intently making pictures on the counter out of Lucky Charms, a Twizzler dangling from the side of her mouth. They eat all of their meals together after that first encounter in the kitchen. He’s found that she has a knack for nonverbal conversation in a way Derek doesn’t. Between Stiles’ constantly running mouth and the articulation of her facial features, he feels like their conversations have been on par with some he’s had with Scott or Lydia.

Plus her stomach is as bottomless as Stiles’. It’s beautiful.

“Like, I could buy a house, I’m an adult. I mean, if I had a bunch of money, I totally could. It doesn’t even matter, seriously, even if buying a house is literally settled by a Hunger Games-style tournament, he could have still sent a text. Katniss and Peeta had plenty of downtime in that fucking cave between mack sessions and weepy stories about Prim’s goat.”

He angrily scrapes off another wad of cookie dough into his mouth, “Not to mention poor Lydia’s been trapped at Bazaar, bored out of her mind, while I’m here waiting to be attacked at any moment by your bat-shit uncle. I’ve been down that road with Peter Hale and I don’t have wolfy healing powers that zap me normal.”

Gaby looks up and he wishes desperately he could shove the last part back down his throat. A fat lot of good fast healing did her.

“What’re you making anyhow? Cthulhu’s dog?” he asks, changing the subject.

He goes around the counter to where she sits on one of the mismatched stools lined up before it. “Is that you? As a wolf?"

She shakes her head placidly, mashing the Twizzler in her molars. “Talia,” she says after a moment.

“Were you close with her?”

Gaby nods.

“I never met her, but Gumma says they used to talk sometimes. Sometimes Talia’d ask her to consult on pack health with Dr. Deaton; you know, like holistic type stuff. Dad liked her a lot,” Stiles chuckles upon further inspection of her work, “And you gave her rainbows for eyes. Interesting choice, Hale. Personally, I wou-,”

“McNamara.”

“What?”

Stiles’ phone blinks to life. If a text could be grumpy, it was this text.

_Let me in._

Which, seriously? Stiles is two seconds from losing it.

The ash line is strong; Gumma’s own recipe. It’s an old world blend of brick dust and three kinds of mountain ash. Scott has to stand two feet from the porch or his eyes start to water. Stiles throws open the door and sure enough, Derek is standing unhappily on the walk, eyes and nose tinged an itchy looking crimson.

But he’s ok. Not bloodied or dead, just pissed off.

Relief washes over Stiles and suddenly that glower is the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Let you in or you’ll what? Huff and puff and blow the house down?” Stiles asks leaning on the railing post. It's low hanging fruit, but how many times is that set up going to tumble into his lap? Actually, given his circle of friends and acquaintances, probably a lot. He's going to have to brush up on his obscure wolf pop culture references just to keep up with the demand.

“Peter's been watching me, that's why I didn't call,” Derek grumbles, getting right to point. He says it like he's been mad over it for the whole drive to the house.

His car itself is so pretentious it hurts, mostly because it was bought with Hale money. Stiles can appreciate a nice car from afar, but the glossy black monstrosity parked on his lawn sticks out like a sore thumb. Parked here, in front of a house just barely above the poverty line dripping with unkempt Spanish moss and smattered with chipping paint, it practically screams 'we're cooking meth in the basement'.

Stiles eyes narrow, “And this 'you're buying a house' thing? Peter’s cool with you moving in on his territory?”

“It’s not in his territory. The Charlebois Pack is giving me asylum two parishes over.”

Stiles steps off the porch, arms crossed. “You realize how stupid that is. Gaby’s trail goes cold, then all of a sudden you and your pack take off out of his reach?”

“She can’t stay here," he grumbles looking pinched and creased as ever.

Sunlight scatters in Derek's blue-black hair and on his tanned skin. Those whispers of sensation heat over Stiles’ scars, but also over his elbow; he hears the pitchy cry he'd sobbed in the shower as he came. His cheeks and face flush, but it's hot enough the color can’t be mistaken for anything but sun-touch. He’s standing a little too close and backs up a step.

“You can’t just disappear. You’ll never make the parish line.”

“Then _what_?”

“Obviously I have an idea, but we gotta wait for Gumma. She’s playing bridge at Mrs. Greene’s,” he jerks his thumb at the house, “I realize now that the reason I look like I look and you look like you look is because one of us eats like a four-year-old and watches too much television. That being said, do you want to eat junk food and watch too much TV ‘til she gets home?”

It's difficult to imagine Derek eating anything that comes in a colorful wrapper, especially when he somehow manages to get himself into such unforgiving jeans each morning, but hell if Stiles won't try to peer pressure the shit out of him anyway.

“Do I have a choice?"

“Nope.”

Derek huffs a breath and nods, “Fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a doodle of Gaby at the top, if anyone was curious.
> 
> I'm from Vermont originally and there's sort of this dumb running joke about how Vermonters ruin French words and names. If you know any French, you know how to pronounce Charlebois; if you're from Vermont you pronounce it Charlie Boys because, at this point, I feel my home state is on to some foundation level shit posting. 
> 
> Anyway, stupid fucking jokes no one cares about aside, I wrote this chapter from Stiles POV because I think he'd have had the most vulnerable, human reaction to Gaby's conditioning. Regardless of the added AU stuff about his scarring, even in the show I feel like Stiles is the most empathetic character when it comes to traumatic experiences. Originally I had it from Gaby's POV, but it's important to me that people see how rape is such an inexcusable crime because it not only has the potential to take away the victim's sense of security and self-worth, but causes damaging tremors in the lives of everyone around them. In my own experience, it's the helplessness that destroyed me while trying to help a friend recover. It's one of those horrible things that takes away your power; there's nothing you can do to go back and stop it. 
> 
> If you're a victim or you know someone who is, please do not give up. I am with you. 
> 
> Rape Recovery Center offers a 24 hour crisis hotline if you need help: 801-467-7273 or you can visit their website: http://www.raperecoverycenter.com/ 
> 
> Take care of each other.


	7. Mushrooms

"I'll get you some tissues," Stiles says as he trots away to the kitchen. Derek is about to ask why when the mountain ash catches up to him and he sneezes into the crook of his arm. He hates being in this house. So many smells, so many chemicals and poisonous herbs, all of it fogs his senses. Even though Stiles broke the ash line with his foot the effects linger. Derek assumes this is what having allergies is like and it’s awful.

Stiles returns with a box of Kleenex and he grudgingly accepts a few to blow his nose with.

“Scott gets pretty congested too,” Stiles offers and Derek’s not sure if he’s trying to console him or tease him. From the fox’s grin on his face, probably both. He looks like he hasn’t left the house in a few of days. He’s dressed in shorts and a t-shirt to abate the heat, hair a wavy, sweat-dewy mess and… he always seems to be barefoot if he can help it. The bottom of his shirt rides a little high over one hip and the visible skin stripe under it is lined with the tip of what must be a longer scar.

Derek looks away as Gaby pads into the room. She comes up to him and shows him her neck.

His stomach churns uncomfortably. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he tells her quietly.

She glances at him uncertainly and looks away, awkwardly shifting, waiting to be scented.

“Stiles can you-,” Stiles makes a vague gesture as he wanders toward the kitchen. Derek waits until he vanishes and then says, “Gaby, I won’t touch you unless you want me to. Do you really want me to?”

She stares at the floor.

She is Hale and McNamara blood, even the lowest members of those families aren’t submissive. Derek’s fangs throb in his gums, aching to emerge. Treating an omega like a breeder, like nothing other than something to be mounted and dominated is so incredibly grotesque he can barely comprehend her acting like this. Being _forced_ to act like this. How long has Peter been conditioning her like a lap dog? It’s absolutely vile.

His mother would have skinned Peter alive for even thinking of committing this sort of cruelty against his own family.

Gaby’s fingers are clenched around the hem of her sweater. Because she doesn’t want him to touch her and just can’t find the fire to tell him so.

“When you want me to scent you,” he says gingerly, “tell me. I won’t until you say it’s ok. If that never happens, that’s ok too.”

She nods stiffly.

“Do you mind if I talk to Stiles privately?”

She looks up at him briefly and then goes to the couch to lay down. Every instinct screams at him to comfort her, to nuzzle and pet and chuff. That’s what he’s supposed to do, that’s how packs take care of each other. But this isn’t that kind of pain. Without her consent, he’s not helping anyone but himself feel better. Instead, he tells her he’ll be right back.

Stiles has his back to him, sitting at the kitchen counter playing on his phone. The kitchen was cluttered before, but now it’s a mess with the kinds of food Derek wouldn’t feed to a raccoon. 

“I thought you were kidding,” he says.

Stiles swivels, yanking out an earbud as he moves, “I never kid.”

He feels his brow lift without his command.

“You want something to drink?” Stiles asks, “You look like a protein powder kinda guy, which, Ovaltine's sorta the same thing, right?”

“What’s Gaby’s behavior been like towards you?” Derek asks, ignoring him.

“Umm,” Stiles chews his bottom lip. It’s – Derek rids himself of the thought.

Stiles smells odd. There are notes to the fume he can’t quite pin down and others that are loud and obvious. The unidentifiable one seems familiar, but he can't place it; like... allspice, something wild.

What he does recognize is the overwhelming scent of ozone tossed with chemicals. Stiles is taking some kind of drugs that make him smell bitter. It covers the scent Derek remembers from the last time he was here; the change makes his wolf nervous. There are several, but the constantly shifting scents of humans, of their determination to alter their natural identifiers, is one of the reasons why he avoids them. His control over what he is isn’t the issue. It’s that their inconsistency reminds him of how deceitful they are.

“She’s been ok, I mean, all things considered,” Stiles says with a shrug. He keeps touching his face and throat, rubbing his eyes like he's not sleeping well. The constantly moving line of his mouth and fidgeting hands is distracting.

“She looks you in the eye?”

“I’m human, it’s not the same.” His face is so earnest it only presses the shards of glass marring Derek’s heart in deeper. Stiles is strange, strange smelling, strange acting, but he doesn’t seem to miss a thing. Even the things Derek wishes he would.

He understands it was wolves that hurt Gaby and it’s wolves she doesn’t trust anymore.

“The scenting thing,” Stiles says, drawing him out of himself, “I know what it means to real wolves, but what’s it mean to werewolves? Scott did it to me once – I'm talk'n one minute we're downing Chipotle and the next his eyes are all half-lidded and he's _right_ up in my business.”

“It’s,” he frowns. Imagining Scott's face pressed into Stiles' neck, leaving his own scent behind puts unease in Derek's belly. He swallows, staring for a moment, following the line of Stiles' collarbone.

 Regaining himself, he realizes he's never explained scenting, only done what came naturally or what he had seen his family do, “When you haven’t seen a pack member in a long time, you have to reacquaint your wolf,” he taps the center of his chest, the place the wolf spirit lives, “with theirs. Or, if you’re meeting a wolf for the first time, it’s like shaking or hugging.”

“But it’s not something you just automatically do?” Stiles asks, crossing his ankles on the stool's lowest rung.

Derek shakes his head, “You have to feel it,” he taps his chest again to try and explain something that’s never needed words. Stiles nods thoughtfully.

“But Gaby doesn’t feel it,” he says after a moment.

Derek shakes his head.

“Then, I mean I know you have to get her out of town, I get it, but do you really think it’s a good idea to move her into a house full of wolves she already has no reason to trust when she doesn’t even want to scent _you_?”

Derek blinks, but Stiles’ eyes have no challenge in them. He’s not a wolf. He doesn’t talk like one and doesn’t think like one.

“I don’t have a choice. Moving to Charlebois Territory is the only option, they’re a big pack, and Peter wouldn’t risk a land war with them over Gaby. But if he catches her here no one’s going to save her. This is his territory. She’s family, but she’s not pack.”

“I guess,” Stiles sighs. There is no right way to help her. Derek knows that. Gaby is going to get hurt one way or another. He’d rather it be somewhere far from their uncle.

“You have to keep her a few more days while I get my pack sorted out.”

“How ‘bout you throw a ‘please’ in there rudewolf.”

“Please,” Derek grumbles.

“Only if you call me – I’m serious, you call me or text or send a damn carrier pigeon at least once a day. Even if Peter’s all over your balls, you find a way to talk to me. This is my house, my family; if I don’t hear from you, I’m gonna assume you’re dead and that we gotta figure something else out, ok?”

There’s less fear obscuring his scent. What gets past the emotion is that odd scent, it's fierce smelling, like running the length of the Preserve at dawn. The determination in his eyes, his dismissal of Derek’s authority, it’s – it stirs up his wolf. It claws at his chest. His eyes snare on the line of Stiles’ speckled neck, the faintly beating pulse under his jaw, the tendons in his throat the flutter when he swallows.

The feeling Gaby doesn’t have for other wolves, the ache, the magnetic draw, sweeps out from his heart, down his arms and legs until he’s covered in gooseflesh.

The talk of scenting only makes the need to more pressing in his mind. His mother used to hum against his neck and blow raspberries under his chin. He clings to the sensation differently than the others. For them it’s a greeting, for him it’s feeling home.

But Stiles doesn’t trust wolves either. He hates them just like he should. Derek needs to leave. He’s not Peter. He understands what no means. No is everything other than a lucidly spoken 'yes' and that’s not something he’ll get in this house, not something any of them needs. Gaby needs to be brought to a safe place to heal. Stiles needs to be rid of the Hales and Derek needs to do everything he can to make sure those things happen.

He gives Stiles a nod and says, “I’ll call.”

Stiles chuckles, “It’s a little sad that this is the only action I get from anyone.”

Derek cocks his head which for some reason makes Stiles’ chuckling escalate into laughing.

“Gumma’ll wander in soon, wanna watch _Stranger Things_ ‘til she does?”

“I shouldn’t stay,” Derek says. It’s true, he shouldn’t. There’s a lot he shouldn’t do. “I need to get back to the Den.” His nose tickles and he is violently racked with another sneeze. This whole damn place must be made of mountain ash boards. The prickly nature of it is an all-encompassing mist. It wants him out.

Stiles presses more tissues into his hand. Long fingers brush his knuckles and his skin is cool to the touch; smooth as talc.

“We can meet at a neutral location next time, big guy,” Stiles laughs. How Gaby can stand to be in here longer than a few minutes completely eludes him. He dabs his nose and knuckles his eyes, he’s itchy all over. Stiles gestures to the door with his chin and walks him out. Gaby’s already napping on the couch and he doesn’t disturb her. Not that he can. She could sleep through an earthquake when she was little.

The hay fever lessens once he steps off the porch.

“If you need, you can drop by whenever.” It would sound more sincere if Stiles wasn’t actively trying not to cackle at how miserable he must look.

“I’m sorry about the other day,” he snuffles out, thick with congestion. He’s not good at this sort of thing. Or talking to people in general.  Everything comes out of him wrong but letting his grief get the better of him,  letting himself touch someone that didn't want to be touched,  was selfish. Another wolf would have understood without words, but Stiles doesn't.

“Huh?”

“I shouldn’t have touched you. It was inappropriate.” 

Stiles thin brows pull together. Recognition sheets him in scarlet and he shakes his head, “It’s fine, I, it’s ok.”

The skip in Stiles’ heartbeat is too blatant to convince himself he didn’t hear it. Derek is out of things to say, so he turns and walks to his car.

 

Gaby screams in her sleep. Stiles’ dad is the one that brings her back, wakes her up. Her beta shift is nothing like what Stiles knows – vicious looking and more monstrous than Scott, more than Peter – but he doesn’t have time to be afraid. His instincts kick in when he hears her cries and his dad’s panicked tone. John is an expert in night terrors. Seeing someone else deliriously thrash and sob hurts Stiles down deep. Is that what he looked like to his family? Is that how he had sounded?

He just wants to make it stop, make her wake up even if someone has to shake her until she realizes it’s not real.

John sustains a couple gashes in the process of calming her down, but it’s nothing a few stitches and a stiff drink can’t mend. Stiles is good at both.

 

***

 

Things can – and always do – get worse. But this. _This_ shit comes way out of left field.

“The fuck?” he asks of no one in particular. Lydia is petrified beside him as they stare down at the dead – it’s got to be a human, right? – thing on the ground, mashed between two felled logs. The corpse has been here a while. There are – nope. Stiles wretches once, throat slick, chest bubbling with sweat and then vomits. He’s kept his stomach in check for some gruesome, truly, truly fucked up shit, but this? No. His lunch reappears in the tangle of roots of the tree he’s propped himself against.

Lydia just continues to stare.

“Stiles, I think I,” a fan of fingers flutters over her mouth for a moment, “I recognize him.”

Stiles spits a wad of bile at the bark. He needs to find some kind of physical indicator of when Lydia is going into full-on banshee mode. Nothing about her personality changes when death starts to call to her. She had wanted to go to the mall in Shreveport. Gumma had snapped at him for getting so pale and never leaving the house and forced him to go be social. He'd tried to fight her on it, but nobody really wins an argument with his grandmother. After a while, the woman stops speaking and stares expectantly until you crumble into tiny, obedient pieces.

There hadn’t been any urgency or twitching or wailing specters creepily circling Lydia. One minute they were on the highway, Stiles boredly scrolling through Tumblr and the next they were at some obscure ass trail-head of a park Stiles had never heard of and Lydia was all moon-eyed.

Oh, and there was a dead guy crammed into a log hole who’s rapidly decomposing, _skinless_ , corpse was growing mushrooms. _Mushrooms._

“Fuck, Lyds, he doesn’t even have a _face_.”

Lydia shakes her head, unable to take her wide green eyes of the dead man, “I know him,” she whimpers, “I… I saw him out the window.”

“Please don’t say unsettling stuff like that it’s very – unsettling,” Stiles barely chokes out around another dry heave. 

“He came to Bazaar,” she turns slowly on Stiles, “Don’t you remember?” Her voice has turned airy; bewildered and frightened and still trying to understand what she's seeing. 

Stiles holds her pleading gaze for a moment and then forces himself to look at the corpse again. Grayish rotted muscle and pitted, black eye sockets grimace back up at him. The man he turned away at the shop had a gap in his front teeth just like this poor soul.

That means…. The man he’d ignored had been one of the precious few that wasn’t a paranoid lunatic. He was dead because of Stiles.

Stiles stumbles back, palm pressing to his forehead. This was a murder, there was no doubt about it. Even under all the decay, it was obvious this man had been skinned with near surgical precision. Skinned like a fucking rabbit. Was he alive while being flayed? Stiles is going to throw up again, but there’s nothing left in his stomach. Distantly he hears Lydia talking, talking to police, maybe his dad?

What if he'd just invited the guy in? Called Gumma? How could he have _known_? The ones that were right, that were actually being stalked by that which skulks behind the veil; monsters, curses, sickness, none of it had culminated into something like this. He's not even sure if Gumma could have stopped whatever this was. If she'd been there that day, if she'd tried to help, she could be out here too; divested of flesh and dignity and so, so alone. For that, no matter how selfish, he's grateful he did nothing. 

Even so, it doesn't change the fact that he has to fix this. He let this man die and he's going to fix this. 

 

Deputy Ramirez escorts Stiles and Lydia back to the station and takes their statements while John stays behind to run the crime scene. Too many of his crimes scenes have become slight of hand tricks to keep Lydia out of trouble. She's found more dead bodies in this parish than every police department combine. Needless to say, she has John on speed dial and probably would have gotten the hell out of there before his unit arrived if not for Stiles' brief panic attack. It hadn't been hard breathing and a constricting chest, but tides of internal dread, the kind that freezes a person. Deer in the headlights is overused but accurate. His dad rubbing his back brought him out of it. 

He had climbed into Lydia's car still shaken, refusing to let John worry about them when they already had Gaby to look after. Stiles can deal; he's  _fine_. 

 

While scouring the woods around the body one of the dogs turned up clothes and a wallet.

The victim’s name was Ashby Walcott.

 

Lydia stays home with Gaby while Stilinskis drive out to the morgue. Pacing the lobby, Stiles runs his hands through his hair. He sits. Stands again. Tips the pencil cup on the abandoned reception desk and arranges the pens by height, then by color. John wouldn’t let him be in the same room as such a macabre corpse; seeing it once was apparently enough as far as his father was concerned. Except, Stiles has flapped off the shock. Now he needed to _know_. He needed to know exactly the fate that befell Ashby Walcott, who did it and what the fuck they were going to do about it.

Gumma had gone in with John, accompanied by a supremely eerie bastard by the name of Chance Bohannon; or as Stiles assumed the man’s business cards read: Papa Chance, Voodoo King of Jefferson Parish. Bohannon like to _play_ voodooman for the tourists, except Stiles suspected he’d been playing so long he believed all of his own mystical hype.

He wasn’t really a King, nor was he from Louisiana; his parents were from the Old Country, the same village Gumma grew up in. What he knew, or the little of it he did, wasn’t American southern voodoo. He was useful to Gumma because he’d spent more time in Poland than John or Stiles, thus knew a few more tricks, had a little more Spark and could keep up with her gatling gun fire Polish as she bounced her thoughts off him. Stiles may have spoken the language, but there's second generation, westernized Polish and then there's Motherland Polish and that's a whole other thing. 

Stiles restlessly wanders in circles, touching things, rubbing his face until his family and Bo-fucking-hannon emerge through the sweeping steel doors. There’s no one else around, because John is sheriff, but also because Gumma recommended the head coroner a bad ass traiteur that healed his gout with nothing but a blessing of the Good Lord.

Or something. They get their run of the place whenever something supernatural decides it wants to play Jenga with human limbs or what have you.

Stiles dashes by Bohannon to his grandmother. Bohannon, who dresses like Doctor Facilier’s redneck-Hot Topic-lovin cousin, snorts in distaste and twists the end of mustache irritably.

“What was it?” Stiles implores.

Gumma takes his hand as they walk towards the exit, “I don’t know, dziecko.”

Stiles shoots his incredulity at his father and then Chance, “You’re kidding? You guys were in there an _hour_!”

“Ain’t noth’n I ever seen, sugar,” replies Bohannon casually. Bo’s accent is about as forced and awkward as a middle school dance.

“We put up more wards in meantime,” says Gumma thoughtfully as Stiles holds the door for her, “Could be something, could be nothing.”

“Dad?” Stiles begs. He needs _something_. Some direction to go with this. This is his fucking fault. Walcott’s dead because he did nothing; because he couldn’t show the kind of compassion he’d watched his grandmother display his whole life.

“Sorry, kiddo,” shrugs John, eyes heavy with exhaustion, “Maybe there’s something in the repository; but Gum’s right, I’ve never heard of something that kills like this.”

“Ashby came to us, though,” Stiles exclaims, stopping the three of them on the sidewalk, “He knew it was something else; and,” Stiles shakes his head trying to knock his spinning thoughts into line, “he-he took brick dust. I’m pretty sure. If he used it right he should have been fine – where was he staying? He was from out of town, we have to check his hotel roo-,”

“Stiles,” John approaches him slowly until he can gently cup his son’s face between his warm, bear-paw hands, “This isn’t your fault.”

“It is-,”

“Mr. Walcott should have gone to the police for help, not an esoteric gift shop. This could just as easily been a human, understand? There’s nothing you could have done.”

“I shoulda… I shoulda talk to him, Dad.”

John pats his cheek unable to agree or disagree. “We’re gonna look into it. Don’t let this work you up, son; you’ve got enough going on.”

 

 

Stiles follows the sound of Gaby's whimpering. It's after midnight, usually, she's passed out by now. Stiles is only awake because let it go? That’s rich. He’ll just let the violent murder of a man he should have helped go. He had a copy of the case file thanks to a cloned keycard and intimate passion for misbehaving. Now that he is an adult maybe it’s not misbehaving, rather obsession driven rule-bending that skims very close to a felony.

 A high pitched animal cry pierces through his bedroom door as he pushes it open.

_Tap tap._

She cries again at the sound. Her wolf form is a shuddering mass on the mattress, balled up into herself. He must have botched the job he'd done trying to trim the branches outside the window back. He makes a mental note to take a look at it again in the morning.

"Gabs?" Stiles calls quietly. She doesn't acknowledge him but goes silent. She's still scared of the tapping but won't make a peep now that he's in the room. It makes his gut wrench. Her sobbing had been uncontrollable while he hiked up the stairs. To have it cut off suddenly – how many times had she been trapped in the Den and punished for crying when she was scared?

"It's ok, it's just me," he says, groping his way to the bed through the dimness.

_Tap tap tap._

He settles beside her and brushes his fingers down her back, "It's just the tree, sometimes it hits the window."

A dry sound comes out of her and she scoots closer, shaking the whole bed as she moves. Somehow, he’s less scared of her like this. The wolf is huge, but he’s starting to see that she only goes into the shift when she’s afraid. He pretends she’s just a Great Dane. Albeit a very large Great Dane, but not dangerous, not like this.

"I used to freak out over stuff like that too," he whispers, "Every sound I didn't recognize right away made me think Peter was right behind me. You get a handle on what's real and what's just your subconscious just tryna protect you after a while." She grizzles. A damp, hot nose pokes under his elbow and when he lifts his arm her big, clumsy head falls in his lap. “You’re ok here, dude.”

He sits with her, petting and talking her down until he falls asleep beside her.

 

***

 

Derek keeps his word for the most part. He calls once a day and when he can’t Boyd does. He’s not sure if he should tell Derek about Ashby Walcott. The miner pause it takes to decide _NO, why the hell would you? -_ bothers him. Derek Hale’s got no business knowing his; ‘nough wolves scurrying about the place as it is.

Stiles doesn’t like the brevity of the conversations, but from what he can gather just because Scott isn’t being invited out doesn’t mean the hunts aren’t still happening. Derek is still scouring the town every night, but the lack of scent and destruction isn’t enough to convince Peter Gaby’s run off for good.

Stiles knew it wouldn’t.

She's his property and she’s still out there somewhere. The only way she’ll escape him is if she dies. Scott and Stiles are living proof that there’s no running from Peter Hale, no hiding, nowhere they can go where he won’t find them.

Gumma and Stiles work late into the night in Bazaar’s back office sewing together her way out.

It won’t be pretty.

 

*** 

 

Stiles bolts upright on the couch, eyes wide until the filtering sunlight hits him. Frantically, he hunts for his phone and when he feels a bump, thumbs it out of where it's become lodged in the cushions. His dreams are mostly bright shapes and colors and food. There was a weird summer of experimental antidepressants that fucked his shit up real good, but now mostly it's all flower crowns and strobe lights.

This morning was more of the same until he rose into a half sleep, the part when he is between unconscious and functional, and his brain had started whirring. Maybe there was something extra in the daisy fields of his usual dreams that he just didn't remember, maybe not; _dammit Jim! I'm not a doctor!_

Either way, he is, at this moment, in fact, the engine room of the Titanic before the whole thing goes tits up. Huge metal –  _thingies_ – pumping, steam and shirtless dudes shoveling coal. His mouth is cottony and so dry, but he's used to the feeling and powers through without stumbling to the bathroom for his meds. He has to do this right now, while it's fresh in his head, chase down this wisp of thought before he gets distracted.

He needs a grumpy sounding board.

“You want hotcakes, kid?” calls his dad from the kitchen.

As he half groggily, half madly manipulates his phone, Stiles shoots to his feet. “WHY?!” he yells.

“Because they’re good,” replies John.

“No! No, not you, yes hotcakes, but no, why? _Why_? It doesn’t make any – ouch!” Stiles’ knee bounces off the coffee table and he flails to stay upright. He doesn’t and lands hard, ass first on the wood floor. Shoots of sparkling pain climb his tailbone, but he's up in the next second, unfazed.

“You ok?” His father has asked so many times, the concern that should accompany that question has worn out thin.

“Boyd!” Stiles cries when the line picks up.

“What do you want, Stiles?”

“Where’s Hale? I need to talk to him right now, ASAP, pronto, yesterday-,”

“Then why didn’t you call him?”

“He never answers his phone, I don’t think he knows ho-,”

“What’s wrong?” Derek’s voice starts faintly and grows louder until the phone is pressed against his cheek.

“WHY WOULD PETER SEND _YOU_ TO FIND GABY?” Stiles erupts. He’s a genius, he’s a fucking, crazy genius. Ok, overreaching with that last, but why had no one even considered the absolute what-the-fuckery of Peter's motivation here?

“What-?”

“He _knows_ you know Gaby, so... _what_? He thought she wouldn’t shift back? He thought you wouldn’t see or smell her? And when you did inevitably see her, did he just expect you to hand her over once she told you what happened? _Really?_ ”

“Stiles, I-,”

“No, wait  – why her? Why _Gaby_? There are other omegas, at least I assume that's a thing and not just a dark, mysterious Hale thing, so why go to all the trouble and _then_ sick you on her? What’s the point? You get what I’m saying, like, why expend all this effort to find her just to sabotage himself?”

“I don’t know-,”

“Exactly! This isn't right. I knew the second Isaac asked Scott to help. What if-,”

“Stiles!” Derek _growls_ , cutting him off mid-tangent, "It doesn’t matter!"

"But it does!" Stiles protests, "Think, dude, Peter's a sociopath, but he's not stupid, he'd never do anything that works against him-,"

"What're you trying to say?" Derek punches out, "That he had a lapse of judgment? That he's _innocent_?"

"Well, I mean, no-,"

" _Then what_?"

"Don't you want to know why? What if he planned the whole thing? What if he _wanted_ you to find Gaby?"

"I don't care why. And neither should you." Derek hangs up.

Stiles throws his phone at the couch. Come _on._ He doesn't know what he's getting at, but he knows he has something. He walks tight, fuming circles, one hand tangled in his hair. Breathes.

Fine. Ok; in hindsight, going to Derek with this may have been a bad call. Derek is the definition of biased, as he should be, for sure.

But why abduct his own family, and then send his nephew after her when she escapes? _They know each other._ The only explanation is that Peter wanted to fail. It just, it doesn’t make any sense. Stiles slumps into the couch again.

But maybe Derek is right. Maybe it doesn't matter. Not even Peter can predict what Derek will do next, the man isn't omnipotent. And he couldn’t have known the Stilinskis would get involved.

So no. Not planned. Premeditated, maybe, but not _planned_.  And he really doubts Peter suddenly grew a fucking conscience overnight.

All that matters is that Gaby's safe now. It's maddening, but Derek is kind of right, it doesn't matter how they got to this point, it matters that they're here.

This is one thread he won't pull. For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooo doggy this a longun. 
> 
> Sorry for the late upload, there was a LOT of tinkering that had to be done on this part - I feel like it's still not right and may come back to do edits later. It's been hard to write recently what with some absolute bullshit that's been going down at work. All I'll say is that not being allowed to eat lunch at my own fucking desk or look at my phone or use the internet infuriates me to no end. Anyhow until now, most of Stay was written on the clock, but no mas. We'll see what happens. 
> 
> *breathes*
> 
> Bo-fucking-hannon. Saying it fills me with joy again. 
> 
> So, when Ashby first appears, briefly, exposition-ly, did you get that feeling you get while watching a bad (or great?) Syfy TV movie, like 'Huh, I wonder if this shit will be important later?' I did. And I wrote it. Terribly. Trope/formulaic predictability awareness is our fandom's greatest charm. Right? Guys? 
> 
> Dual plots! I guess. This'll probably all come crashing down. I should just end this whole deal with a fake dating trope and call it a day. 
> 
> As always Gaby gives me the feels. I swear she'll have happier moments, but for now I recommend Puffs Plus with Lotion. Please leave feedback if your feeling share-y, it's always appreciated! *presses mouth into mic* I'm very lonely.


	8. Hide

Stiles stops at the Wawa on his way home. He's thrown together enough money for gas and a sandwich somehow. It is a rare alignment of fortune that seems as elusive as a blue moon. He takes gas and sandwiches very seriously. The pumps are vacant, dark asphalt made electric by rainfall and the glow of neon signs. This Wawa is likely the first in existence  – decrepit is as good a descriptor as any.

Nighttime forest encroaches on in the crumbling structure with creeping vines and moss, eroding away concrete as it reaches.

This place is scary as hell at Halloween. The owner, Bill Starkweather, spatters the shop's front with fake blood and lights everything up with towering gothic candles. He then proceeds to jump out of increasingly cunning hiding spots to scare the shit out of people. It doesn’t help that he's a crazy old hayseed with a milky eye and a mouthful of rotted and missing teeth.

Stiles leans back on his Jeep as the archaic pump chugs out gasoline, whining and creaking as it strains.

The store is empty. The kid that works the late shift, some faceless guy Stiles remembers vaguely from AP US History, has absconded out back to smoke a joint, leaving the register and, more importantly, the sub bar unmanned. The smell of skunk is weak, but there. Annoyed, Stiles chews his thumbnail while he waits, stomach gurgling, staring daggers across the lot.

“Just off work, Sweetheart?”

Stiles’ reaction to that voice is violent. He slips on nothing, elbows banging off the side of his Jeep trying to cover his face, to curl away. It’s like he’s been socked in the gut. He can’t fucking breathe. He walks a few steps, the heel of his palm pressed to his forehead, just to get some distance, compose himself. The self-loathing that crops up is blaring, springing out of deep mortified pits in his belly. Because he swore he’d be fucking normal, he’d keep it together, he’d be brave that next time he heard that voice.

But this was not like the scenarios he had played through over and over in his mind. For all of his effort, he’s still chicken shit when confronted by Peter Hale.

He cuts a glare at Peter when he’s able and forces his arms to his sides. Peter leans on the hood of the Jeep, eating – eating a _cheeseburger_. Stiles can’t help the ‘what the fuck?’ that crosses his face.

“Take your time,” Peter says graciously, lightly even, waving him off.

“What’re you-?”

The bridge of Peter’s nose scrunches with amusement, “Hunting.”

“I’d be dead if it was me, so seeing as I’m not, we don’t have anything to talk about.”

The weakness of being human is so exposed in Peter’s presence. There is no question of what Stiles is in Peter’s mind and that is, resoundingly: _prey_. There’s nothing he can do, no way he can stand or speak or breathe that makes him anything other than something to be caught and eviscerated. His shocking heart rate is enough evidence of that. It hurts it's hammering so hard, making him dizzy.

And his back - it’s on fire.

“I haven’t seen you in a while, surely there’s something new going on in your life.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“You heart disagrees with you there, Princess,” he says playfully around a mouthful. Peter fingers a pickle out the burger and pops it casually into his mouth and Stiles is going to vomit. “See,” Peter continues, “you’re a smart kid – you’d have made a good wolf. Certainly a better wolf than _Scott McCall_ ,” he scoffs Scott’s name like it’s some sick joke he tells often, “but there are just some things you couldn’t possibly know.” Peter’s eyes go from friendly to mangled steel for a horrifying few seconds. He smiles cruelly, “Like how long wolf scent stays on a person.”

No. He showered. He’d been sweating all day, took shipments, ate street tacos with Scott. Smelling like Gaby isn’t possible, is it?

Fuck.

He’s an idiot. Peter doesn’t smell Gaby. He doesn’t need to, does he? Because the up-kick in Stiles’ already slamming heart, the billow of his anxiety, just gave him away. Stiles is an open book to a wolf, the weakest link.

Why is Peter even here?

He shuts his eyes.

 _Derek_. He must have stunk of wolfsbane and mountain ash after leaving the house. Peter’s too smart to write that off. Because what reason would Stiles ever have to invite a Hale wolf into his house – twice?

They are so fucked.

“The hell are you talking about?” Stiles snaps anyway.

Wouldn't he be dead by now if they were fucked? But... he's not. Because Peter can’t admit what he’s really after. This is still just a wild wolf – Goose? Wolf. – chase. Alpha Hale's not out here alone. No fucking way is Peter this far from the Den by himself. His betas can’t be long off; a proficient pack never leaves earshot.

Sweet Kabballah Monster, they are not fucked. Not yet. This isn’t Texas Chainsaw Massacre. This is Pride and Prejudice – Peter’s too careful do anything other than skirt the object of his chase until the absolute last moment; until he knows there’s only one way for the cards to fold.

Peter’s mouth quirks. They both know the fucking score and it’s a dead heat. No one has the upper hand here. Peter can no more kill Stiles than Stiles can, well, get killed because there's really no other way that can shake out.

“Peter.”

_Thank Christ._

Stiles should not be so elated to hear that voice, but it’s soft and calm and steady and fuck Stiles resists the urge to run and hide behind Derek shouting ‘ _Whatcha gonna do now, Son_?’. Derek’s a few paces from him, heavy boots shoulder width apart over broken pavement, cautious eyes taking in both of them. He’s not tense, he’s alert. Power coils in his arms and shoulders, ready to move if he has to; if Peter doesn't give him a choice.

He latches on Stiles’ gaze and Stiles' knees go a little weak.

He shouldn’t be so relieved or… or anything else. He feels Derek look him over with minute flicks of impossibly colored eyes, looking for injury maybe? It’s so beyond anything Stiles is ready to see in his face, so simple, so protective, it makes the danger that much more real.

His attention goes back to his uncle, “Isaac thinks he has the scent.”

“Well,” Peter says, straightening, “I suppose we should take a look-see.” He finishes the few bites of burger as he brushes by Stiles. Peter’s brow lifts ruefully over a faint smirk, as he passes too closely. But Stiles doesn’t sink back from him.

He whips the wax paper at the ground and saunters into the night-murk of the woods. Derek watches him go, without moving to follow. When Stiles can’t see him anymore he starts toward Derek, the beginning of words loosing on his tongue, only to be cut off, feet frozen in place by a wave of Derek’s hand. He's not looking at him. They wait for what seems like longer than necessary, but again, clearly, Stiles knows fuck all about the sensitivity of wolf hearing.

“Go home, Stiles,” Derek says when they are clear.

“He knows I have –,” he won’t say her name. So maybe he’s still really paranoid that something, someone is listening. He gets close to Derek, closer than he would normally feel comfortable doing. But – fuck. The literal bogie man from all of his nightmares just decides to drop in for a visit and, just, fuck it. Derek’s just as scary but less likely to give him a matching set of scars across his front.

“I know,” Derek agrees.

“ _How long have you known_?”

“Not long.”

“Maybe next time shoot me a heads up? ‘Hey Stiles, my psycho fucking uncle might swing by for some mind games later, wear comfortable shoes’.” Stiles does his best Derek-grumpy-face.

Derek’s brow does _something_ and he asks, “That’s what you think I sound like?”

“Maybe wanna stay on topic, big guy?”

Derek hooks his arms across his chest and, it’s the fear, it’s just, Stiles – fuck ok, this is an emotionally compromising situation and a lot of shit is flying around in his brain and also, he’s not a Cyberman. Not anymore; his hands don't wander over himself as much as they used to, but since that shower, he's slowly built back up some desire.

Derek’s arms, clasped together – he’s, obviously, he’s blindingly, scorchingly hot, ok? Hot like the fucking sun. And it’s not ok, but this is his brain seeking outlets, seeking anything that compartmentalizes coming into such close proximity to Peter. With reliving razor-like claws flaying him open, leaving him bleeding out in a fucking Costco parking lot.

He grudgingly accepts the fact that seeing Derek draw his arms up, watching the cords of muscle sift under his skin, twining dark blue cables of vein pulling taut, makes his dick twitch. A little. Slightly more than a little.

“Are you ok.”  Derek’s voice often misses the necessary inflection that makes a statement a question. His nostrils flare, a flume of some sort of indecipherable expression crosses over him and his back straightens. 

As he realizes why, the humiliation, is a rigid slap right to Stiles’ pride. 

He needs to get away from wolves. Needs a very long, cold shower and a vacation to somewhere colder, like the vacuum of space. Scott had told him about the arousal smell, had gone into unnecessary, _graphic_ detail about it. This is middle school all over again, except he can't just flip his smell up into the waistband of his pants to hide it.

“Fine,” he answers and he can’t hold Derek’s gaze.

“Peter won’t come after you.”

“Yep, put that together myself. I’ll… I need to go.” His sneakers squeak, he turns around so fast.

“Stiles.”

Apparently, the mortification is not yet complete. Tight-lipped, Stiles shifts sideways to listen to whatever else needs hearing.

But Derek’s not severe, he wears that same look of concern, that cautiousness returning to him. There’s something pressing his insides, written out in the lines of his frame that doesn’t make it into words. Instead of whatever it is he says, “Be careful,” and starts off after his uncle toward the woods.

And how does that leave Stiles? What state of fear/arousal does that push him to?

Approximately half a hard-on.

 

 

Derek gets bolder in his challenges to Peter’s hunt. Boyd says he brings up the search and how they are completely void of results since the wolf’s trail disappeared East. East, toward Georgia, where the rest of Gaby's family is supposed to be.

Derek's tried getting in contact with them. He's called, he's emailed, Boyd says he even wrote and posted a letter to them. Nothing. No response and none of his pack can road trip out there to figure out what's going on; Peter's watching them too carefully.

 The most Derek can do is mention the cold trail in front of pack members; delicately point out that they are wasting pack resources. Stiles may not know him very well, but the pull in his voice when they talk on the phone is ragged, though he never actually brings it up. This song and dance, this respectful alpha he's pretending to be in front of Peter when all he really wants to do is rip his uncle limb from limb, is grinding on him. There's just nothing they can do right now.

Peter, of course, never reacts to Derek's concerns about the futility of this chase. He just smiles and pushes them on for the protection of the family.

They can afford to be a little pedantic.

 

 

Stiles is unabashedly singing – murdering – a mashup of Taylor Swift lyrics as he jiggles his keys in the front door's lock while masterfully balancing a couple of truly American sized Slurpees and his sunglasses in his free hand. Scott refuses to eat processed food anymore. He says it's too strong, too plastic-y, too blah blah blah, whiny excuses, et cetera. But Gaby, bless her, is some kind of wolf-nigma when it comes to eating like an unsupervised child and withstanding the mountain ash that comprises most of the house.

Yesterday he had introduced her to the Blue Slurpee – who can remember the names? All Stiles knows is that most of them are mildly pornographic, Berry Blast for example, or Orgasm Splash – and today it's either Red or Orange depending on which one she senselessly wrestles from him first.

Sheltered is putting it gently. Whatever the Hales – or rather the McNamaras – got up to out there in the woods, far from humans, it made for good wolves, but morosely deficient humans. Gaby didn't even go to school. She was eighteen or nineteen, it was hard to tell because her answers to his questions if she answered at all, were so limited, and had been homeschooled her whole life. As for refined sugars?

Apparently, it's all new to her.

He had bought her a Fudgsicle off the ice cream truck that passes by the house every so often and she damn near _lost_ her mind; got all growly and jumpy, but in a happy way. She had gnawed the Popsicle stick into splinters by the time he got it away from her.

And then, enabler that he is, he ran to the Piggly Wiggly to buy a whole box to split between them while he taught her how to play Call of Duty. He is aware of the unfair advantage werewolf reflexes add to gaming, thanks to Scott, but after a little fumbling with the controls and button memorizing she _destroyed._ Hail, Gaby, Conqueror of Worlds, Smasher of Prepubescent Dreams.

She hasn't quite worked her way up to going outside.

Derek vehemently grumbles against her leaving the house, but she's a wolf. It isn't hard to spot the longing way she looks out the window or sniffs at the air when the door opens. At the same time, she doesn't talk about what it was like being on her own, too scared to come out of the shift. Stiles doesn't even know how long she was out there fending for herself. It's almost like she's afraid that if she leaves there won't be a place to come back to.

And she hasn't breathed a word about Peter; Derek says that even when they talk on the phone during his check-ins she's never brought it up. Which is understandable, why would she? But not knowing how their uncle got his hands on her in the first place is clearly killing Derek. There's nothing he can do now, he has to know that, but the need to know is burning him up even if he never admits to it.

If it were Stiles trapped in his house for days on end he'd have lost his damn mind by now and likely set something on fire, whether that would have been on purpose or otherwise is up for debate. There's not enough video games and masturbation in the world that could keep him occupied this long.

Stiles shoulders through the door and is grateful to the wave of cool air that pounds out against the Spring heat. Not even the freezing drinks held against his body is enough to stave off the dense fog of hot, humid air. He's been sweating since the moment he climbed into his Jeep that morning.

As soon as he's through the door, he knows something's wrong. It’s a prickle that creeps over his scalp.

Gaby's nowhere in sight.

Stiles throws everything down on the couch and – he stops, heart hammering.

He can't panic.

He calmly – as calmly as possible – goes upstairs to his bedroom and opens the door. Gaby's not there. The bed is in the same nest she usually leaves it in, but she isn't bundled up in it.

Nothing is knocked over or broken.

Stiles fingers his phone out of his pocket. Ok. If something's wrong, he can't lose it – he can't say anything, can't yell for Gaby in hopes that she's just hiding, he can't even call Derek. If something's wrong any noise he makes might be heard by someone that shouldn't hear it. He texts Derek:

_Is Gaby with you?_

He knows it doesn't take Derek long to answer, but the few seconds between sending and getting the reply he's dreading seems like an eternity.

_No._

Stiles makes himself breathe.

He's lightheaded like the air is suddenly too thin. He sprints to the stairs and trips, sliding down the bottom half on his rear. He pops to his feet and turns over the house. He goes through cabinets and closets, tears apart the laundry room, but she's nowhere. His phone trembles in his pocket as he darts down into the basement.

Another text from Derek: _Stay there._

Good.

Fuck, that's what he needs right now, two hundred pounds of pissed off werewolf to scour the house and woods. This is fine, Derek will know what to do, he just has to sit tight. Stiles throws boxes out of the way and chokes on the motes of dust kicked into the air.

A whimper slides out of the gloom from between struts and cobwebs. It's fully an animal sound. Yellow eyes flare up a few feet back from him and Stiles isn't sure if he's going to cry or vomit from the relief of seeing her there.

"It's ok," he whispers, rocking back onto his butt, "It's ok, Derek's coming, ok?"

Gaby shuffles in circles anxiously. How she managed to cram herself into the crawl space under the steps is certainly pushing some of the laws of physics. She's wedged in as far back as physically possible and emitting low animal sobs. Stiles rubs his face, forces himself to breathe. She's still here. She's shifted, but not hurt, from what he can see. Stiles waits with her in the dark until he hears the front door bang open and several sets of feet on the floor above.

He doesn't have to say anything. Derek follows his scent and sound of his heart to where they're squatting in the dank cellar.

"What happened." he demands.

"I don't know," Stiles replies soft and firm, in hopes that he can subtly persuade Derek to correct his abrasive tone. If Gaby's in the shift it can only mean she's already scared out of her mind.

"You ok." Derek asks with just as much ferocity, almost like he's accusing Stiles of something.

Stiles waves him off, "I don't think Gaby's gonna wanna come out for a while."

It's too dark to tell what cast of angry-pout-scowl Derek's worked his face into. He snarls, "Go upstairs and help the pack look through the house."

"Ok, I get that you're a big, bad alpha and being a bossy douche is like instinct to you, but, and this is me reiterating, I'm not in your pack and I don’t take orders. Comprende? Also, I _know_ a bunch of wolves did _not_ just come storming into my gramma's house and not take off their shoes. I know this for sure because I spent most of yesterday scrubbing down the floors with vinegar and I know ya'll smell my hours of labor and would never tread on such efforts."

Derek crowds him in a flash and Stiles stumbles back, stomach a terrified, heavy pit of lead, face pulled into a wince before he can think better of it. The sudden, aggressive movement is too much for his overstimulated mind and he hates himself for backing up even an inch. He rights his posture, squares his shoulders.

" _You think this is a joke._ " Derek snaps chest rumbling, but not yet a growl. Behind them, Gaby's whining elevates in pitch.

"No, I _don’t_ ," he hisses, "I really don't, _Alpha Hale_. But if I'm doing this, if I'm putting my entire family at risk as a favor to you, then I expect some _fucking_ courtesy. I came in here to an empty house and no explanation and I'm just as freaked out and scared for Gaby as you are, so you don’t get to come in here and shit all over me, ok? And the least you can do is _take off your shoes."_  

His anger brings him forward, right into Derek's space, glare leveled directly into his eye line. Derek holds it for a long time before searching the ground angrily and nodding.

"I'm only going upstairs to keep your puppies out of Gumma's stuff and because I'm pretty sure if I stay down here a minute longer I'm going to hit something, _not because you told me to_ ," Stiles barks and trudges up and out of the basement. He would have liked for something a little more assertive than 'You can't tell me what to do', but he's fairly certain he got his point across.

There are no words for how sick he is of taking shit from wolves.

He chases Erica out of Gumma's desk immediately and stands by as the three of them smell their way through the house. Isaac stops at the banister, his hand ghosting over the railing. He's transfixed on something out of sight at the top of the landing.

"What's up there?" He asks, after a few seconds of scrutiny.

"Bedrooms," Stiles answers, gliding closer to him, "Why?"

"Can I go up?"

Stiles frowns. Of course. They all heard his boil over. Good. He doesn't have to repeat himself, then. He glances down and finds the Isaac's already in his socks and his shoes are lined neatly by the door.

He can't help the smugness the crawls over him at the sight.

"Why, yes, Isaac, you may," he says with a little too much sugar.

Isaac roles his eyes and trots up the steps. Stiles follows him curiously. Isaac stops in the hall, eyes jumping between the four doors.

"Does she sleep up here?" He asks, sounding lost in a net of several thoughts.

"Gaby? In my room."

Isaac picks out Stiles' door without help. Whatever scent he's got it's put him in a trance. He kneels by the bed and his eyes drift close as he pours over the smells. Stiles' shifts from foot to foot, wondering if he should do something. This is the closest Derek's pack has ever come to an omega and that's not necessarily a good thing, right? Derek probably gave them express orders not to go down into the basement.

"Someone's been here," Isaac says quietly, looking up at Stiles. He holds Stiles gaze for a moment and then cranes his neck to take in the room. Staying low he moves over the piles of clothes and scattered papers and books until zeroing in by the dresser. His long fingers close around a red hoody and he stands pressing it to his nose.

"Is this yours?" He asks handing it over.

"Uh, yeah." A sour taste builds into his mouth, his belly doing flips for the umpteenth time in the last couple of days, "What does it smell like?"

Fuck, he doesn't want to know. Not at all.

"It's been scent marked recently," Isaac replies gravely, eyes still on the clothing. Whatever is playing at his nose seems to confuse him. "Definitely a wolf, maybe a Hale wolf, but I'm not sure who."

"You, uh," he can't think, too many screaming thoughts grasping for his attention, "You smell anything else?"

"Just that, it's all over the room; it's strongest on this and in the sheets."

The fabric wrings in Stiles' hands. The sheets. Where Gaby spends most of her time, where her smell is strongest. All he can picture is some half shifted monster rolling around on the bed to make some sort of perverse display of dominance.

Gaby must have heard them coming, must have smelled them and bolted to the basement to hide; shifted and scared and having to sit there alone in the dark while they rubbed themselves all over what was supposed to be her safe place.

This is Stiles' fault. He didn’t put up the ash line. He was too nervous that leaving Gaby alone in the circle might backfire and trap her if there was an accident. Like a fire, God forbid. But it left her vulnerable. She was trapped here no matter what he did.

Jesus Christ, this whole thing is so _fucking sick_. Who does shit like this? What's the point of torturing a fucking kid? And it's not just Gaby that was called out, was it?

"Is it anywhere else in the house?"

Isaac shakes his head and then asks, "Why are you so scared?" It's not concern on his face or in his voice, it's more calculated than that, fact-finding.

"I need to, uh," he's dizzy, he's going to faint. Stiles makes it to the bed before vertigo puts him on his knees. His back, his scars feel like they're covered in fire ants. Peter's eyes in the parking lot, dark red, the curve of his smile, the moon full and doting behind him. Trying to run, hitting the pavement, the scrapes on his chin, his hands, the claws on his back right before –

Stiles must have some kind of PTSD meltdown because he's aware of himself suddenly, having no recollection of the mental vacation he just slipped out of; he's not holding the hoody anymore and Derek is squatting in front of him.

"Where's Isaac?" He blurts. He feels like he just got whacked in the face by a shovel. He knows he's either flushed or white as a sheet – it feels like both and his hands are in fists in his lap.

"They're outside," Derek says, calmly, noticeably calmly, but it's not condescending, "Stiles, why is there wolf scent on your hoody?"

"It's, it's, um," Stiles shakes his head, because what the fuck? What the flying fuck? Derek's hand waivers at his side cogs almost audibly turning over in his mind. Stiles laughs with a strain of hysteria; it's a warbled, mad sound. Derek must decide to touch him, because his hand claps gingerly on Stiles' elbow, bringing him back and his palm is huge and warm and Stiles scrubs his own cheeks – this is supposed to be over and now he just.... He is _not_ going to cry.

Nuh-uh. 

"Stiles," Derek mutters. He has a soft voice already, regardless of his surly demeanor, but when he really puts in an effort to be gentle, it's – it's a little too much and Stiles' throat clenches up.

"It was in my Jeep," Stiles grinds out harshly, "The night Peter beat the shit out of me. That fucking hoody was in my Jeep, Scott had to use it to stop the bleeding until the ambulance got there." He can't look Derek in the eye so he glowers over his shoulder at the wall. "He was here. He was in my room and he rubbed his smell all over it, didn't he?" Stiles demands.

Derek shakes his head, "No, it's not Peter. It's one of his betas."

"But he sent them."

"Yes," Derek retracts his arm and braces it on his thigh, "He's just trying to scare you."

"Yeah, well it's fucking working."

"I'm not going to let anything happen," Derek tells him, and Stiles meets his gaze and hates how tethering it is. How it holds him down, keeps him from blowing away. A wolf shouldn't be able to look at him like that.

His eyes are gray today.

"Thank you for taking off your shoes."

Derek blinks and then says flatly, "I need you to put up an ash line."

"I appreciate that you're trying to be less of a dick, but you realize you're still just telling me what to do."

"Please."

Stiles blurts a laugh. It's the least sincere 'please' he's ever heard and Derek's fucking face is crinkled like they're sitting on a heap of hot garbage. He laughs a hitch into his side, doubled over at something that shouldn't be so funny, but he just really needs to laugh and the tension in his back releases and his scars stop aching. Stiles latches onto Derek's shoulder to stop himself falling off the mattress.

"What is it about me you find so funny?" Derek asks, but it's all bark. He's – smiling, sort of. His mouth curves upward slightly, the bottoms of his teeth just peeking out, ivory and perfect.

"Isn't it exhausting being so pissed all the time? Jesus Christ, take a vacation."

"I'm not pissed all the time."

Stiles tries to hold down another wave and fails. It exits him in an undignified snort.

Derek adds, "Being laughed at constantly is a little grating."

"I'm sorry, really, it's just, every time you're around you're either gonna kill something or brood over it."

"Whenever I'm around, someone is in life-threatening danger and it's usually you."

"Wait," Stiles says, sobering, "Why are you up here? Where's Gaby?"

"She's on the couch downstairs, but she's still in the True Shift."

"I'll send you my Scotch Guard bill."

Predictably, Derek does not find this funny and communicates his distaste with a thousand yard stare. Stiles follows him down into the living room where the massive shape of a moon-furred animal is balled up on the couch. Her huge head is snuffling in the cushions and hidden. They walk passed, padding softly so as not to disturb her too much.

Boyd, Isaac and Erica are milling about the lawn and their heads snap up once Derek's is on the porch. While he tells them to go home, Stiles palms a weighty handful of mountain ash from the planter by the door. When the pack is clear he tosses it and a shadow of black dust encompasses the house, bursting outward from his fingers.

"Not a lot of people can do that," Derek observes.

"It's my only good trick," Stiles tells him, on his way back to the door, "I don't have the Spark for much more – well, I don't have the concentration." Derek's looking at him and not following when he glances back. "What?" Stiles asks automatically.

Derek shakes his head, shrugs, and it’s so infuriatingly noncommittal.

"Oooh," Stiles chides, when he realizes, "Spark is a bad word to you, right?"

"No."

"You're stare'n at me like I got an extra head." Stiles wishes his family's mojo struck this much apprehension in Peter, at least enough to keep his underlings from breaking into the house. It's not like Derek didn't know, or hadn't figured it out by now. Maybe just hearing the word made it more real to him. Families like the Stilinskis and Hales, with hereditary bonds to natural energies, didn't exactly see eye-to-eye on the channeling of those forces.

Gumma sparingly told stories from her childhood about the conflicts between Shifters and Sparks, about the crimes committed on both sides; the abductions, the rituals, the hunts, ultimately, the deaths. Things like that didn't really happen anymore, not in the south at least. But by Derek's quiet reaction, he's heard the stories too, maybe a few worse.

"You hungry?" Stiles asks, letting him off the hook. He won't have this conversation now, there probably doesn’t even need to be one. Derek's trusted him this far, trusted him with Gaby's safety and that's not nothing.

Derek nods and says, "I'll cook."

"No need," Stiles says, throwing open the door, "I got Easy Mac."

The look on Derek's face reads simply as 'No.'

Derek starts throwing together red beans and rice with not inconsiderable, supernatural speed. He's grumbly and sneezy and has to step out of the house several times to clear out his sinuses. Stiles tries to help only to be swatted away and growled at more than once. It's probably for the best. His hands have been shaking since they came downstairs.

While Derek works, he roots around in Gumma's study. Sitting still is not an option, so he shuffles through drawers and cabinets. He gathers the herbs and a recipe book or two and makes his way back out to the kitchen. Derek pays him small curious glances but doesn't comment on his tinkering. It's not until Stiles sets the ground up ingredients on fire that the wolf pauses with a bent brow.

"C'mere," Stiles says as he gives the concoction one last good grind of his pestle. Derek wanders away from the stove, that bird-like curiosity perched on his face. "Pinch this between your fingers," Stiles instructs, "hold it to your nose and breathe it in."

"What is it."

"Call it supernatural Claritin." His explanation does not sway Derek at all. Stiles sighs, "It's burned out wolfsbane, orange peels, fennel, some other stuff. It'll make it easier for you to breathe."

Derek's light eyes flicker between Stiles and the mortar a few times before he does as he's told.

"Do it like a popper," Stiles suggests.

"I don't do poppers."  

"You know what I mean literalwolf, just snort it hard and fast."

Derek gives the powder between his index finger and thumb a skeptical look before he complies. His sweater has thumb holes Stiles had been too preoccupied to notice before. It's begrudgingly cute. The powder disappears into Derek's nose and leaves him coughing.

"How do you feel?" Stiles asks pridefully.

Rubbing his nose, Derek nods. When he speaks the congestion has all but gone, "Better."

"Good." Stiles cleans up his things and hunts for something else to do. The house is spotless due to his earlier efforts. He gives up looking for distractions after a few circles around the house. Resigned to sit at the counter watching and fiddling with tea sachets, Stiles asks, "Should I get Gaby?"

Derek shakes his head as he stirs, "She'll come when she's hungry."

That's a thing people say about their dog, though, come on. Is that sort of speicist talk ok when it's coming from a wolf?

"Hey," Stiles says. He leans forward on his elbows. There's probably no point in lowering his voice since Gaby can hear a pin drop in Japan with those fluffy ears. "Are you ok?"

It's not a glare Derek gives him, but the guy’s eyebrows are so _murdery_ it’s hard to tell the nuances of his expressions. This is caught between confusion and distraction.

Stiles tries, "How're you holding up?"

"I'm fine." Stiles gets the impression it's not something people ask Derek very often.

"'I'm fine' isn't an emotion, big guy."

Derek rolls his eyes, goes back to what he's doing, his back to Stiles.

"You don't have to be big, strong alpha all the time."

"I’m fi-," he stops himself that time, frustration a clearly struck cord in his voice. He tries again, lower, "It's my responsibility not to be clouded by emotion," he looks over his shoulder.

Stiles doesn’t press anymore. Maybe it's good that his instincts overpower what must be a lake of fire inside him. Then again, if Derek is so clear as to his position, his duty as alpha, that makes what Peter's done all the more unspeakable. How is it Derek is such a devoted alpha and his own blood, his uncle, is a complete betrayal? If it boggles Stiles, it must be tearing Derek apart.

They eat in silence at the kitchen table. It's definitely not comfortable silence and that's probably Stiles' fault for prying. He takes it with as much grace as possible. Derek is a damn good cook. Everyone swears their family's red beans and rice is the best in Louisiana, but damn if the Hale recipe isn't pretty freak’n close. Stiles reaches for seconds regardless of the tension.

After a while, a low whine comes from the archway.

Gaby's sitting under it, head drooped, big yellow eyes staring sorrowfully at the table. She still hasn't shifted back, but that's ok. If she’s comfortable as a wolf than she should stay one.

"Hungry?" Stiles chirps. She chuffs at him and eventually gathers the confidence to cross the dining room and set her huge head in his lap. He feeds her spoonfuls of beans and sausage and she laps it up gratefully, her eyes watery. His fingers card through her ruff as she sloppily chews.

Gaby doesn't look like any wolf on the Animal Planet or at the zoo. Her skull shape and eyes are almost primordial, like how Stiles would imagine nature's first try at a wolf. And then there's the size. He doesn't ask if all wolves look like her in the True Shift, even he knows well enough not to talk about her like she isn't there. Maybe words are lost on her like this, either way, it doesn't seem right.

Derek stays the night, but not in the house. He and Isaac patrol the grounds and surrounding woods all night. Gaby doesn't come out of the Shift, not even when the Sheriff gets home and she _loves_ John. The mild look of terror on his face at the sight of her as she jumps on him is goddamn priceless. She nearly topples him in her excitement. John gets past the surprise enough to crack a grin and wrestle her to the floor. She leans into him, tongue flopping from her mouth as he gives her full body scratches.

“You musta had a day girly,” he laughs into her ruff. Gaby makes a noise that sounds like it wants to be words. John gives Stiles a questioning glance but doesn’t ask outright.

Stiles texts him the details and they trade grim looks as they electronically discuss security measures that need to be taken, Gaby's giant body crammed between them on the couch, her head in John's lap. Stiles doesn't mention the hoody. His dad would storm off to the Den to confront Peter immediately if he says anything. Hell, it takes a generous amount of thumb dexterity just to talk his dad out of launching a one-man assault on Gaby's behalf.

Gaby sleeps with Stiles on the couch instead of alone in his room. It's stifling with her so close, but he finds that wrapping around his big, fluffy friend makes him feel safer too when he didn't know he needed it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not brought to your by my cat Tulip because if she got her way there would be no chapters only stepping on the fucking keyboard and headbutts. 
> 
> [**EloquentSavage**](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EloquentSavage/pseuds/EloquentSavage) for all the help! Seriously, getting it ready to post was a snap this week :D
> 
> PETER. Look who finally joined the party. I definitely have an attractive men eating junk food kink. Please let me know what you think of the chapter!


	9. Patience

Stiles stands at the property line. He's up early; too wired to sleep anymore. Armed with two cups of coffee he scans the dewy treeline. Does coffee work on wolves if alcohol doesn't? Scott doesn't like it and Scott is Stiles' only guinea-wolf-pig.

"Hey, Hale!" He yells. He probably doesn't have to shout, but it’s invigorating to call out in the cool morning air.

"What're you doing."

Stiles yips and dances to avoid the concurrent spillage of scalding liquid. Derek has materialized behind him, eyes red and puffy with exhaustion and glinting under the usual hard furrow.

"Cheese and rice, wear a _bell_ ," Stiles hisses, whirling on him.

Derek doesn’t look like he slept at all. His black hair is whipped into a frenzy and his clothes are caked in mud and streaked with grass stains. Stiles triumphantly holds out one of the mugs to him, which he regards like he's sure it's poison. Not necessarily poison because he thinks Stiles wants him dead, more because he obviously doesn't trust Stiles anywhere near a kitchen. And that's ridiculous, a person can slather themselves in candy and junk and also be a decent cook; the two are not mutually exclusive.

"Seriously, the machine does all the work," Stiles tells him, thrusting the cup at him with more gusto.

Derek takes it after a moment and sips; his eyes drift closed. Stiles can hear the hollow echo of him inhaling hard into it.

"Like the smell of coffee?" He asks as Derek drinks more steadily.

He doesn't get a verbal answer, just a shallow nod. "I found something," Derek says eventually, voice hesitant.

Stiles cocks his head without meaning to. It's an expression Gaby makes every time she's confused. Hell, he's seen Scott and even Derek do it too when they're curious. He can't help doing it too now that his life _is_ wolves. The dog-like response gets something like tired amusement out of Derek, not really a smile, no definitely not. He'd turn to stone if he ever _really_ smiled.

"There was a scent in the woods," he says lowly. Stiles gets a distinct impression that he is not going to like where this is going. Furthermore, he likely would not be hearing it were Gaby not still dead asleep on the couch. His fingers feel cold suddenly and he wraps them tighter around his steaming cup. "It was near the house, moving."

"You don't know what it was?" Stiles hedges and Derek shakes his head.

"Couldn't catch it."

"So... what does that mean? Are we in trouble?"

"I don't know yet," he frowns into his mug, "It smelled like... rotting."

"Like food rotting or like revenant rotting?"

Derek's mouth compresses. He doesn't like that word any more than he likes the word spark.  "Like a corpse," he rephrases, "It got close to one of the windows and then was gone."

Stiles can’t decide if that's good or bad. It takes an unreal amount of spark to draw up a revenant from beyond the Door; it's the type of practice no self-respecting practitioner performs unless there is no other choice. That kind of black art instills fear even in Gumma, who will instantly spit on anyone who utters the word. And a curious swamp-witch is the last thing they need. Honestly, a curious anything can't be good.

"I know Gaby's an omega," Stiles says staunchly, "but what else is she?"

Sometimes Derek's facial expressions are clear as a June sky. Stiles can see him bite back his initial reaction to _lie;_ can see him make the choice not to. Because he knows he can't get away with it and it's infuriating that he's still omitting truths, still doesn't completely trust Stiles after everything.

Derek's eyes glance around the canopy and he huffs.

"She's not a normal wolf."

"No shit."

"I only kept it from you because it's not important," he insists, "and it's none of your business."

"If she's in my house, it's completely my business, _liar_ wolf."

Derek fixes him with an icy glare, but bitterly gives in all the same, "She's a First Wolf. I don't know the science – or the lore. The McNamara's know-," 

"The McNamaras who're M.I.A," says Stiles and rolls his hand, "Gimme what you do know, big guy."

Despite the sting of not being trusted, a teeny-tiny pocket of Stiles is sort of-

He watches Derek lock up, arms weaving over his chest, head down; pulling himself together before he says something he shouldn't. That and the exhaustion, the messy hair, it's kinda... kinda doing it for Stiles. It's sort of – precious. Not in a Lord of Rings, Smeagol, precious – gross – but physically guarding himself and, in a way guarding Gaby like this, it's prickly on the outside, but soft and gooey on the inside. 

He tells Stiles, "She's able to tap the True Shift _because_ she's a First Wolf. When she shifts she's taking the form of an ancestor of our species, but I don't know which. Laura says there are too many branches on the canid genetic tree to be sure. She calls the animal form a megafauna wolf. That's all I know. She's not more dangerous or different from any other wolf, she just looks different in the Shift."

"Would her kids be born First Wolves?"

"Maybe. A First Wolf is like...," his eyes cast down at the ground as he thinks, "is like what a werewolf is to a human, a First Wolf is to a werewolf. They're just stories. I don't know how they work or why they happen."

"But she's not special in any other way?" It's the most delicate way he can ask if there's any other reason someone, or something, besides Peter, would come looking for her. 

Derek shrugs.

"Fine. This thing is so far out of hand it's halfway to Mars. We need to find the McNamaras right now. I'll pack up tonight and head out in morning," Stiles says, and before Derek can protest, his frowny mouth popping open like a gasping fish, he adds stoutly, "You already know you aren't an option, the pack neither. Even Scott leaving might be trouble."

" _No,"_ Derek growls, "If by some freak accident you did find them, they'd turn you, kill you or worse."

That takes Stiles slightly aback. "Why?" He asks cautiously.

"You know why."

"No, please, _elaborate_ ," Stiles snaps, stepping forward.

"You smell like a thunderstorm from fifty paces.  Someone like you coming after them, after one of their own has been abducted, will only make things worse."

If feels like more of a smack than it should and Stiles grinds his teeth.

Derek sighs, his shoulders loosening a little, "If they're still out there, you have to understand that a Spark wandering into their territory is threatening. You're not going."

  _If_ they're still out there. It's the closest anyone's gotten to voicing the fact that maybe the reason no one can get in touch with the McNamaras is that they might be dead. More of Derek's family razed to ashes. More dead for no reason.

And Derek's an open book of that horrible reality. Is it so far-fetched to think that he doesn't want to look any harder for them if there's such a substantial chance that they're gone forever? If no one looks, he doesn't have to hear that he's more alone than before.

Derek clears his throat, emotion draining away, leaving a slate of neutrality that must take insurmountable effort to maintain. "I realize that you insist on throwing yourself into the path of danger, and you constantly feel the need to remind me you're not part of my pack, but you _will_ listen about this. You're _not_ going."

"What if-,"

" _Stiles."_

"No, hear me out, ok; your plan to just take off into another pack's territory is still dangerous because you don't know what Peter will do to get Gaby back. He obviously went to a lot of trouble to get her and he's an unpredictable _psycho_. She might not be safe on Charlebois land, but she would absolutely be safe with her own pack, right?" He waits for an answer that doesn't come and then plows ahead, "Right, so we have to at least look for them and if my smell is the problem, just scent mark me."

The glaring intensifies and Stiles knew it would, but, seriously, if the way he smells is the only obstacle between them and possibly a huge, True Shifted cavalry, then covering himself in Derek's scent is a small price to pay. The Discovery Channel and Wikipedia and fan fiction sites have plenty to say about it; though, the details do tend to blur when it comes to the most effective method.

" _No_."

"However it's done, it's fine, scent mark me and I promise dude, I'll find out what happened to them."

Derek closes the space between them and _growls_. It's not territorial or one of the clipped rumbles that comes out of him when he's annoyed. It's an alpha growl and it reaches his eyes, bathes them in glowing crimson. A hand tipped by claws snatches Stiles by his collar and yanks him into Derek's shadow.

" _No_ ," he says and the word rattles through Stiles, soaking deep into his marrow. He's not a wolf – a beta or gamma would have whimpered, buckled, obeyed. That's not Derek's point, though. Stiles stands in his gaze, doesn't look away. It's not a command for submissiveness. Derek's frustrated, he's worried and the only way he knows how to communicate that is to let the wolf do it for him. This is... protective.

"Why?" Stiles asks, breathily. _Why do you care?_

Derek releases him, claws retracting. He makes an angry grunt and storms off back toward the woods.

 

“C’mon you bastard,” hisses Stiles, jimmying the handle. He’s sixty percent sure he managed to swipe the right room key while Scott flirted with the motel front-desk-person. He’d been so pleased with his twirl of stealth and not tripping over himself in the process that maybe he’d gotten too distracted and grabbed the wrong key. A key which is now jammed in the bolt refusing to come free.

“Dude, move,” Scott says quickly, pushing him out of the way. With a careful look over his shoulder – who knows what Scott thinks is the worst that could happen to a werewolf in an abandoned motel lot in broad daylight – he throws his weight into the door and the frame cracks, the door swinging lopsided into the room beyond.

“We prolly shoulda done that to start,” observes Stiles, glaring at the key where it’s still lodged, unmoving in the lock.

“With a key it woulda just been entering,” Scott points out grumpily, “I didn’t want to break in if we didn’t have to.”

“That’s fair.” Stiles steps into the mangy room. The cops had come and gone a few days ago and found nothing indicative of Ashby Walcott’s murderer having ever come here. There had been signs of a struggle in the woods, but nothing else. No footprints other than the victim’s, no clothing fibers, finger prints, nothing. They weren’t even sure what the murder weapon was. All the coroner was sure of was that Ashby Walcott had been alive while his skin was peeled off. What did the peeling? The report _literally said_ ‘maybe a knife.’

 _Maybe_ a knife _._

Ok, Hollow Downs isn’t New Orleans or Atlanta or even close to any place that can boast a sophisticated law enforcement department. But _maybe_ someone needs to look into hiring a coroner that didn’t sleep, party and magically Forrest Gump their way through a community college doctorate program.

The maids have been here already. The room, while no beacon of sanitary living conditions, is as neat as it can be with twin beds made and new-ish towels in the bathroom. If Stiles hadn’t found the body himself, he’d have assumed Ashby died in here. Someone certainly had at some point. The stains on the floor are either blood, piss or cum. He glances at Scott’s hand where it’s clapped over his nose and mouth. All three then. Righteous.

“There’s nothing here,” Scott says tightly.

“I need wolf nose, dude,” Stiles implores, “I really doubt the maids put their back into cleaning this place, you gotta tell me if there’s something my dad’s squad might have missed.”

Grumbling, Scott drops his hand and takes a breath. His eyes squeeze shut as he tries to sift through the riot of odors.

“I’m surprised you ain’t call Derek for help,” Scott says dryly.

“Why would I?” Stiles asks, half listening. He lifts the shabby curtains away from the sill. Someone’s wiped the surface, but just barely. His finger comes back after running down it covered in grit and red powder. Walcott had done what Stiles told him to. He was safe in this room. He hadn’t been abducted here, but the police knew that already.

“He’s been a wolf longer; he’d probably be better at this,” Scott says casually, “Plus you’ve stank really bad since he started hanging around.”

Stiles’ head twists to stare at him, “ _What_?”

Scott makes a face, “You smell like, like I don’t even know what. Just _ready_ , you know?”

“No, I do not know Scott. I never want to know. For the sake of both our sanity, _you_ should never, _ever_ want to know either.”

Shrugging Scott says, “It’s sorta gross, but, I mean, you’re different. Brighter, kind of. I was really worried, but in the last couple weeks, you seem better. If it’s Derek making you feel better, that’s not a bad thing.”

“Derek _Hale_ does _not_ make me anything-,”

“He’s not Peter.”

Stiles' mouth screws up, “He’s a Hale.”

“You’ve said yourself Talia was a good person,” insists Scott, “he’s her son. I mean, he’s like really bad at human stuff and talking, but I don’t think he’s a bad guy. Just, y’know, like, _taciturn_ as fuck.”

“Scotty, I’m gonna head off this train of thought right now, ‘kay? I don’t have a fucking crush on Derek ‘what-are-emotions?’ Hale. Please just tell me if there’s anything weird in here so we can go.”  Stiles is aware that his heart in racing. He is aware that Scott is also aware. His best friend’s the-lady-doth-protest-too-much smirk makes him seriously consider whether a broken hand will be worth punching Scott in the face.

Scott rolls his eyes and says, “It’s too musty, I can’t tell.”

“Musty how?”

“Um, I dunno, like chalky.”

Frowning Stiles takes in the room again. Chalky? He’s been expecting Scott to pick up on cleaners or bodily smells or mites in the sheets, but chalky?

“Is that smell everywhere?” he asks. Scott shuts his eyes. Maybe bringing Derek would’ve been a good idea, honestly. Other than the fact that Derek’s got no reason to waste his time on this and… the thought of telling him Ashby Walcott is locked up in a morgue freezer because Stiles hadn’t acted puts a cold feeling in his belly.

“Yeah, kinda,” Scott takes a big sniff and steps forward almost mindlessly, “no, it’s-.” He goes to the further of the twin beds, grips the footboard and shoves the whole frame aside easily. “Holy shit,” Scott mutters, backpedaling, “What is that, like, satanic stuff?”

Why wasn’t that in the police report? Stiles goes the markings drawn into the floor. There’s a chance they didn’t see it. No one is pressuring the department for answers, no family members had stepped forward to claim Walcott’s body. He was no one, just some lone tourist.

“It’s not satanic,” replies Stiles. He touches the chalk edges, “it’s a hamsa.”

“What?”

“It’s Middle Eastern,” Stiles rubs his mouth, “he thought he was cursed… or that someone was going to curse him. People use the hamsa to protect themselves from the Evil Eye.”

“So a witch got him?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles shakes his head. This doesn’t make sense. Ashby wanted protection from a curse, but he drew a hamsa under his bed instead of wearing a hamsa talisman? If he knew enough to know what the symbol is, why didn’t he know how to use it? The drawing is sloppy. He’d clearly never tried it before. This could have just been a desperate last attempt to guard himself, trying anything that might work. The hamsa is an old symbol, we’re talking thousands of years old. He could have chosen it thinking the older the ward, the more powerful.

“What the fuck did he think was coming for him?” Stiles asks generally, more to himself than Scott.

“Yeah, and why’d he think Gumma could help him?” adds Scott. People pop out of the woodwork for Gumma’s help. If someone asks the right questions of the right person, she’s not hard to find. Any number of things could have put her in Walcott’s path; there’s no way to tell if he sought her specifically, or if any Spark would’ve done.

“Hey Stiles…,” Scott says thinly. When Stiles glances back at him, his forehead is wrinkled, “I do smell something weird.”

“If you fart, I swear to go-,”

“No, no, I-,” Scott pulls a big breath through his nose, “Dude… I think Walcott was a werewolf.”

 

They clamber back into Stiles' Jeep.

“That’s impossible, Scott, you shoulda seen this guy; he was like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. I’ve never seen an out of shape werewolf.” Stiles gives him a pointed look as he throws the Jeep in gear.

“I smelled wolf in there, man, I swear. It was faint, but there was definitely a wolf staying in that room. And, like, I have a lot of energy since I was bitten, that’s why I work out so much. Maybe if he was a born wolf he was more used to it, you know? He could’ve been better at channeling it into other things.”

“Derek, Boyd, Erica and Isaac are all made of granite, not to mention Peter and his entire pack,” Stiles says, eye brow arched.

“All I’m saying is it could happen.”

“A werewolf wouldn’t go to my family for help, trust me,” argues Stiles, “A werewolf would have a pack and claws and teeth. Since when do wolves run from a fight?”

“A fat, slow werewolf might,” before Stiles can admonish him Scott adds, “I don’t mean like that. I mean, if he’s in a pack and he’s weaker than the others, they’d tell him to run. I saw that mentality with Derek; he’s really hard on Isaac, but if they were ever in trouble – real trouble – he’d tell Isaac to run and hide. Because he’s weaker, less experienced. Protecting gammas and omegas and babies is what the betas and the alpha do. Maybe something happened and his pack told him to run, to save himself.”

“You learned that from Hale?” Stiles meant to be incredulous, but it doesn’t slip out that way.

“Yeah. Derek doesn’t say much, but Boyd and Erica have told me some stuff he taught them. They would die for Isaac to live. It’s fucking intense. The whole pack bond thing is,” Scott blows out a breath, “it’s so far beyond family or blood or whatever. Like that whole blood is thicker than water thing means nothing to them.”

“You realize that saying’s meaning’s not what you think right?”

“What?”

“The saying is ‘blood of the covenant is thicker than water of the womb’.”

“Shit, then yeah, never mind, that’s exactly what they’re like. You get what I’m saying? If this Walcott guy was a big dude or weak, who cares? He probably had a pack that wanted him happy, let him do whatever because they could protect him. I think something happened to them. Something came after them and they told him to get the hell away.”

It would explain the crude hamsa drawing. A werewolf wouldn’t know enough about it to make it effective. Stiles shakes his head, “But a werewolf wouldn’t come looking for Spark help, they just wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know that,” says Scott, “I’m a wolf and I like you.” Stiles takes his eyes off the road long enough to stare at Scott. His friend is looking out the window, relaxed, the reflection of his face in the glass is open, no trace of regret. Scott’s never calls himself a wolf. Actually, Stiles has never heard the ‘W’ word come out of Scott’s mouth if he can help it.

No matter how many times or ways Stiles tried to convince him there was nothing evil about being what he is, Scott never really took what he said to heart. Maybe a human, no matter how close, couldn’t change his mind.

But another wolf could.

 

Derek is breathing hard. It takes a lot to wipe him out. Running through mangroves for hours seems to have done it. On the outside, he must be filthy. The smells coming off him are exactly what he needs to smell. Earth, bark, water, algae, blood. Forest. He falls back onto the ground, stretches, revels in the scent of the bog and wind rolling over his sweat dampened skin. The only time he feels clear is out here, running, hunting, climbing, obeying the wolf, becoming it.

Boughs above him creak and whine; they bend until Boyd leaps down, landing solidly on the patch of packed earth Derek is resting on. Vernon’s not as dirty, not sweating. He hasn’t been pushing as hard as Derek, he’d been keeping his distance; staying out of sight, but never far from earshot.

“You ok?” Boyd asks, still on his haunches.

“Fine.”

“No, you aren’t.”

Derek wipes his forehead with his wrist. He muscles are burning still. It’s a good burn.

“It’s Stilinski,” states Boyd plainly. The wolf reacts before Derek does. His eyes go fiery, warning Boyd against anymore careless words. His betas are unavoidable mirrors. He hates what they reflect back at him, how he doesn’t have any secrets. Hating it doesn’t make any sense and he knows it. His family had been the same way. They knew more about him than he did himself. He could never get to what he wanted to say before they said it for him.

He knows he’s angry, he just doesn’t need the distraction, doesn’t want to pin down exactly what’s got him out here in the middle of nowhere catching his breath. He’s always trying to catch his breath lately.

“What happened?” asks Boyd, dark eyes warm. Boyd reminds Derek of his father. It had taken a while to realize what it was that had drawn him to Vernon. It’s everything. He’s collected. He sees through the inference to the point of things. And he doesn’t talk to Derek like he’s a child. A lot of people do. People, other wolves, they mistake his silence for slowness. He’s not stupid, but parsing the right words together takes him a while and when they do come, their usually wrong anyway. 

“Nothing.”

“Derek,” Boyd says firmly, “What’s going on? I can’t help if you don’t let me.”

“I don’t need help.”

“Yeah, man, you do.” Boyd doesn’t talk much either. Maybe that’s why they get along. If Boyd’s been following him this long, is trying this hard to get him to speak – does that mean it’s important? Boyd sees what Derek is refusing to. It makes his face go hot.

“Nothing happened,” Derek says, drawing up his knees protectively.

“Is that why you’re out here?”

Derek shakes his head, but he doesn’t mean it as a negation, more like he’s embarrassed and cannot comprehend how surreal this conversation is becoming.

“Asked me to scent mark him,” Derek forces out. The alpha spirit won’t let him break eye contact with a subordinate, but if it were Talia, he’d be staring at the ground.

“Why?”

Derek shrugs, shakes his head again. He won’t relive it, shoves the queasiness in his stomach away.

Boyd searches the mangrove roots in thought, “You wanted to?” he asks after a moment.

Yes. Yes, he’d wanted to. He’d wanted to drag that insufferable Spark to the ground and rub his smell over every inch, wanted to hear his heart hammer, see his skin flush. He’s wanted it for a while and turned away every fucking thought that cut its way into his brain about doing just that or worse. What right does he have to think about someone like Stiles like that? None.

Peter ruined any chance Derek might have had at him and that fact is debilitating.  

Derek’s turned that part of himself off for so long he didn’t even know if could still want at all. He’s felt nothing for anyone, but his pack, for years. And now, now his heart _hurts._ It hurts for the one thing it can’t have, the one thing it doesn’t deserve. He’s selfish. A selfish little kid for even entertaining thoughts like fucking scent marking.

Hearing Stiles suggest it so casually, even though he clearly doesn’t know anything about it, it hit a nerve it shouldn’t have and now he’s here; sitting in the mud after a tantrum. How fitting. Maybe people talking to him like he’s a child isn’t that surprising.

Boyd sighs, “Couldn’t tell you what Stilinski’s thinking on a good day. His brain’s a sack of cats; he’s says a lot of stupid shit. But, from what I remember and if you listen to Scott talk about him, I get the feeling everything he says comes from a decent place. He doesn’t seem like the kinda person that fucks with people like that.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” his beta says gently, “He’s tough.”

Derek stares, trying to understand. Boyd smiles slightly, “Whatever Peter did to him, he might be a spaz, but he’s tough as hell. I think if you’re patient, things could work out.”

“Peter almost killed him,” Derek mutters.

“Kate almost killed you.”

Derek throws another warning look at him. Unfazed, he says, “You got no reason to trust humans, but you still do. Give Stilinski a little credit. He didn’t even hesitate to help Gaby, or you and both of you are Hales.”

 

 

He's never spoken to her directly, and never quite wanted to. Derek may be alpha, but Erica? Holy shitsnacks. She gives Peter a run for his money in the 'if looks could _violently_ murder’ department. And what's scarier than weathering one of her smirk/'I'm thinking about eating you' looks? Coming out of the post office – yes the post office, ok? Gumma likes her catalogues – and being shoved against one's own Jeep without warning.

Gumma's mail flutters to ground around where Erica, stupidly hot and terrifying, _Erica_ has Stiles pinned by the shoulders. Unintelligible sounds of alarm and pleas to the Almighty hemorrhage out of him until she barks, " _You told him to scent mark you?"_

 _"_ W-hat?"

She slams him into the door again, silencing any additional stupid questions.

"It's - I didn't mean anything by it-,"

"Right," she purrs voice turning sickly sweet, "you just casually decide to demand my alpha rub you down and send you on your way without second a thought about what something like that means to us?"

"I didn't know-,"

"No, you know enough, you know enough not to pry at things you don’t understand."

"Did he sen-,"

"Of course he didn't send me. Derek may not have any emotional insight unto himself, but somewhere between sulking, run'n into the woods and tearing a gator's _head off_ , Boyd got it out of him. I get that by some god-awful twist of fate we need you right now, but if you fuck up like that again, if you compromise Derek, I will personally _lynch_ you with your own intestines, _got it_?"

"Totally. Crystal clear. Never again."

She discards him and he loses balance, ends up on hands and knees, as she saunters away, the clap of her high heels like thunder on the asphalt. 

 

Stiles slips into one of the busted up rolling chairs in Gumma’s office and tucks her mail into the tray by her ledger. His grandmother sits beside him, quietly humming and writing out checks to their vendors. Her office is cramped and humid, the little radiator stuck in the window wheezing as it fights to pump mildly cooler air into the space. The door jamb is marked up with tallies that note Stiles’ growth from the time he could stand; the topmost parts drawn over again and again at the 5’10’’ line, because yeah, he’s twenty-two and he’s not a quitter.

“Hey, Gummy Bear?” he asks raking a hand through his hair.

“Yes, my sweet?”

“Um,” this is going to be so painful, so, so painful, “What exactly is werewolf scent marking?”

Her fountain pen stills. She turns to him and pulls down her big owly glasses. “Why do you ask me this, dziecko?”

“Pack research?”

Testily, she waits for him to amend his statement. This isn’t exactly something he can ask Scott. Scott was bitten, has no pack, is basically a supernatural social invalid. It is not lost on him, and clearly not lost on Gum, that there had been a time when he was younger and she had tried to get him to sit still long enough to learn these things, to study the family grimoire, but no. He had cried and fussed and pouted until she and his father gave up and let him run around in the woods with Scott and throw stones in the creek.

“I, uh,” he thuds his forehead on the desk in defeat and leaves it there, “I think I said something really stupid and, glutton for punishment that I am, kinda wanna know exactly how big of an ass I made of myself.”

Survey says: a giant, robust ass.

“I see,” she says soberly. Stiles’ mouth has gotten him into plenty of trouble, so this comes as no surprise to his grandmother; they have a life lifetime of anecdotal evidence and letters from the school administration to prove it. She folds her papery hands in her lap. “Well,” she says gently, “is not like scenting. Scenting is like greeting, reinforces pack bonds. There are two kinds of scent marking. When baby is born many pack members take turns marking it, rubbing their smell on the child, making it pack. Parents sometimes continue to scent mark their children into adulthood; is sign of affection.”

Stiles cringes before she gets to the second version, head still firmly on the desk. “It is also used during courtship, mating, things of this nature.” Her tone makes it abundantly clear that she already knows this is what got him in trouble. _Grandmother always knows_. “There are many ways. Rubbing, biting, ejacul-,”

“ _Grammaohmygod_!” he cries, bolting up straight.

Gumma rolls her eyes, “Ejaculation is not shameful. I wash your under trousers for years. You are no stranger to this.”

He wants to die. So, not only did he need his grandmother to explain it to him, but he as good as asked Derek Hale to come on him? _Su_ per.  

“I gonna throw myself in traffic,” Stiles says with finality as he stands. Really, there can be no other recourse.

“Do not joke on these things. Great Uncle Krzysztof was run over by Model-T,” she scolds, slapping his rear. “Apologize to Alpha Hale, and that is that.”

“How did you know it was him I may or may not have said something regrettable to?”

Her thin brow arches, “I am Grandmother.”

“Kocham cię,” Stiles says, grinning.

She nods wistfully and goes back to her signing, “Też cię kocham.”

 

Stiles downs his first beer in one ill-advised chug that leaves him coughing and burping and Baptiste watches him with the appropriate amount of judgment. The glass clatters on the bar when he’s done. Still unable to talk and wiping his mouth with his sleeve he uncoordinatedly points at it for a refill.

“What is this, prom night?” Baptiste asks, hip thrust to one side.

“That’s hurtful,” Stiles says hoarsely around a tight throat. Thin memories of an ill-fitting tux and being ditched by his junior prom date rain through is mind. Why not? Pile on the self-loathing while the get'n's good.

“Why you so…,” Baptiste clenches his fists and shakes them for want of a better descriptor.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to, BT.”

“ _Mm-hmm.”_ Baptiste’s eyes go passed him, squint slightly. “Damn,” the bartender mutters. Stiles swivels in his stool.

Damn indeed.

No one has that right to look that downright _illegal_ in jeans and a black t-shirt. Is it a werewolf thing? Why are they all so beautiful? _Why_?

Derek doesn’t even make a show of trying to find Stiles, or, you know, be human. He crosses the bar looking as scowly and homicide-y as the last time Stiles saw him.

“Uh, BT, could I have, um-,”

“Oooh yes baby, yes you can,” and Baptiste scurries in a very un-Baptiste like way to the beer taps.

“Hey,” Stiles manages. Blood is rushing in his ears, roaring so loud he can barely hear himself talk. The pint of beer in him threatens to resurface by the time Derek reaches him. Derek doesn’t sit or acknowledge him, just stands there. “Dude, I am _so_ sorry,” Stiles tumbles out automatically, “I didn’t know, I mean, not really, I was trying to be helpful – I swear on Raptor Jesus that was not some weird come-on.” He winces. In his mind, he can hear Sterling Archer hollering ‘PHRASING!’ from some far off hillock.

“It’s fine,” Derek says and it hurts a little. He says it so quickly there’s either a lot of thought that forced it out or none at all and Stiles can’t tell what’s worse.

“Obviously it’s not,” Stiles tries, “You gotta know I feel horrible and also, just, so fucking embarrassed; it won’t happen again.”

Derek’s brow crushes deeper in on itself, eyes skating over the floor. Christ, how is he making this worse?!

“I mean,” Stiles rambles, “it just seemed logical at the time. If I’d known what it really meant, I never would have….,” if Derek doesn’t look at him he’s going to combust, “Well, um,” he laughs nervously, “not in that context, anyway.”

And Derek’s eyes rip up at him. Eject. EJECT. 

Baptiste floats up from behind the bar with two beers and slides them across.

“Well, well, Derek Hale I ain’t seen you in a dog’s age,” he muses, voice all raspy and drizzled with an extra helping salaciousness. Derek’s beating stare shifts off of Stiles and he lets go of his breath.

“I went to stay with my aunt in Tampa,” Derek tells him, but it’s all white noise to Stiles. Will the shame train never reach the fucking station?

“You all grown now, boyfrien'. How you squeeze in them jeans? Crisco?”

Derek gives a bashful close-lipped smile.

“The Lord is test'n me,” Baptiste laughs, “You know what, these are on me; little welcome home present.”

“Thank you,” Derek says and Baptiste saunters down to the bar where he’s being hailed. “Peter’s pack is starting to listen to me,” he mutters once they’re alone.

“What?”

“They’re getting tired of the hunt. Peter’s been running them ragged.”

Topic change? Refusal to acknowledge Stiles asking to be rubbed/bit/ejaculated on in a different context? Bueno. Read you loud and fucking clear Ghost Rider. He reaches for his beer, drinks down a few swallows and says, “You think he’ll call them off?”

“I don’t know.”

“Isn’t that – what you’re doing – insubordination? Or is the Den a never ending episode of Glee and everyone talks behind each other’s back and occasionally sings Katy Perry mashups?”

“It’s insubordination.”

“What if he figures out it’s you get’n everybody stirred up?”

“He’ll punish me.”

Stiles murmurs into his glass, “You almost sound like you want him to." 

“I have the right to defend myself if he tries.”

Stiles almost chokes on his beer, “You can’t be serious! That’s your plan? He could _kill_ you!”

Derek regards him and shivers go up and down his spine, “There won’t be any pack retribution if happens this way; they’re tired and angry. If I stand up for them and kill him in a fair fight this will all be over.”

Whoa, whoa, hold the fucking phone. In the space of two days, how did they jump from run and hide under the Charlebois' skirts, to possibly find the McNamaras, to suicide death duel to the... well shit, to the death? Until now, Stiles had not thought of Derek as someone to make desperate choices; choices that he knows are pointlessly dangerous. He's so constant, so careful; maybe trying to take care of everyone around him is starting to get to him. He thinks he's pressed for results when really no one is pressing.

“Except Peter Hale doesn’t fight fair! You’ve gotta know that!”

Derek grips the bar and the wood whines under his strength, “He abducted Gaby. He probably killed her pack _._ He’s making a mockery of my mother’s territory, disrespecting the house I grew up in. He turned Scott McCall against his will," the dark anger broils over, making him metallic, just like the night they found Gaby and Stiles bites his bottom lip.  "And he hurt _you; he brags_ about it to me.”

Stiles swallows, his heart throbbing in his chest. He knew Derek knew about that night, at least bits and pieces, but hearing affirmation turns his chest liquid. Stiles crosses his arms just to feel the pull of his shirt across his back. It’s a comforting feeling, one that reminds him that the ragged scar tissue carving up his whole back, scars everyone in town knows about and tries to get a look at when they think he isn't paying attention, are still covered.

He doesn't ever take off his shirt. Doesn't go to the beach or change in the open at the gym. He won’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing them. It's not fair that strangers know about his mutilation before they know his name. And there's a thorn of shame digging into the back of his heart that Derek's no different from the others; that he was told about the hyperactive, bayou-trash with the disfigured back before they even met. Worse, he was told by the monster that was responsible for it.

Stiles chews his bottom lip in silence. He doesn't know how long they sit there, until he hears himself ask, “Why… why do you care about that? I mean, about….”

A muscle in Derek’s cheek flexes. He’s flushed across the tops of his ears and holds his tongue. In the Slammer’s low lighting his eyes are still kaleidoscopic. For the first time in a long time, Stiles’ mind is silent. No scatter, no intrusive blips of meaningless thought or memory. He’s rooted to his seat. Eye contact outside of regular acceptable allotments isn’t a thing he’s ever been particularly skilled at, but this – this is not a trance, no, he’s aware of himself completely. Aware of the beads of sweat rolling down his spine, the salt and smoke smell of the bar.

He’s entirely himself being seen by another person.

Derek’s thumb runs over the bottom of his chin and his skin leaves a streak of heat. Stiles is stock-still. He’s afraid moving will make it stop. It’s not some fantastic realization that he doesn’t want it to, wanting to be touched by Derek has always been there, burning without consciousness to define the ache. His breathing stutters and he leans into Derek’s hand just enough to feel the roughness of his palm against his jaw.

And then he’s gone.

Stiles is paralyzed, heart pounding, his hands on pins and needles. He flinches violently when Baptiste sidles up and says, “You gon’ have to tell me how long you jerked off Satan for a piecea' that.” 

“’Kay,” is Stiles’ fevered answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely had to hustle on this one. Been working all damn day to get this thing ready; I'm pooped. 
> 
> Finally we get to the First Wolf stuff! Other wolves in this AU just look like big, normal wolves in the true Shift, but Gaby does look different. Think LOTR wargs. Not the ones from the Hobbit, those were dumb. 
> 
> I cannot express how fun writing all the scent marking stuff was. Holy balls. So fulfilling. Gumma is not fazed by your jizz stains. She has raised two generations of children and fears nothing. 
> 
> And the STEREK. FUCK. It's about damn time. Whoever wrote this is a real slow burning a-hole. 
> 
> Let's talk about stuff. Please comment! Comment for yOUR LIFE!


	10. Anchor

They stay out of the Den if they can. Before any of this Derek couldn’t stand being in the rebuilt shell of his parents’ house. The smell of ash and burnt skin can’t still be there. He knows he doesn’t really smell it, but sometimes, if he’s alone in the hall or washing dishes the scent of death brushes his nose and he can't stand it. 

He’d roamed the charred skeleton of the aftermath when he was younger, when the smell was really there and present, all that was left of Talia, of pack. That had made more sense to him. It was an unholy place that should have been left to the forest. Peter had insisted on rebuilding on the exact spot of the blaze. He wanted the humans to know that chemicals and “faulty” wiring wasn’t enough to wipe out the Hales.

Derek never thought he intended to live in the house once it was finished. Peter was about strength, fortitude. The house was more of a monument, a warning to the next hunters looking to carve a trophy out of a Hale hide. It was empty for a long time before Peter moved in, took his place officially as alpha. The house nearly became his tomb, maybe that’s why Peter stays. He staved off death here once, maybe it won’t come for him here again.

Or maybe he’s insane and that’s all there is.

Peter knows Derek knows about Gaby. He certainly knows Stiles is concealing her. Neither of them speaks of it. They hadn’t exactly been close before Gaby was discovered; had only traded brief words when Derek first arrived. Why was he called at all? He just… he can’t understand it. Stiles is right about just how backward the logic behind reaching out was. Beyond the act, beyond taking Gaby, hurting her; why he turned to Derek to get her back, it just, it’s madness.

True madness.

What could Peter possibly have to gain with Derek here? Whatever his uncle wants from him, whatever dark, unspeakable reasoning put Derek in this territory, it shakes him down to his core. Peter doesn’t want him dead, he’s not a threat. After he became an alpha, he’d left, amicably; had felt the blood-deep cry to stake out territory and if he’d stayed they would have killed each other. So why call him back?

Derek rubs his face with both hands, elbows balancing on his knees. With their backs to the couch, Erica and Isaac swear and growl at each other, fingers working controllers as they try to kill each other in some video game. He watches them and the screen for a while, lets his mind go blank. Boyd catches his eye from the kitchen where he’s throwing together dinner. He looks Derek over, checking in, and then goes back to what he’s doing. It’s comforting, makes his chest spread with the feeling of safety, no matter how fleeting.

Derek needs to get them all the hell out of here. The longer they stay, the higher the chance of something bad happening. He doesn’t regret the choice to come here, but he’s scared. Scared out of his mind. This whole thing could go south at any time and when it does it will be quick.

His and Peter’s mouths don’t move, but their wolves bristle in each other’s presence. If either brings the contention into the light, it’ll be a bloodbath. Peter might have lost all morality, all dignity, but he is true to his pack. He’s committed his life to preserving it and its bloodlines. If it came to a fight, Derek’s outnumbered, it’s true, he would lose, but he would take half Peter’s pack with him. That fact is the only thing keeping Peter from forcing Gaby’s whereabouts out of any of them.

And their wolves sense the impending bloodshed, it makes Derek’s fangs throb in his gums because above all else this boils down to the imminence of the natural order. Two alphas can’t exist in the same territory; Gaby being thrown between them, giving them a real reason to kill each other, is only exacerbating their instincts.

He rarely sees Peter. He’s easy enough to avoid. Derek and his pack are staying on Hale land, but not in the house. Derek can’t stomach sleeping in that house, regardless of the land’s past, he can’t make himself, his pack, so vulnerable. The guest cottage is a half mile down the hill, out of the line of sight thanks to towering trees and curtains of hanging moss. It’s far enough out of the way that he can go days without encountering Peter or his betas.

And Peter doesn’t bother them.

Until tonight, that is. Erica hears them coming before the others. She’s at the door, her game with Isaac forgotten, but doesn’t open it, radiates tension until Derek joins her. They exchange looks for a moment and then she begins tying back her hair. Derek doesn’t stop her. She only does that when she thinks there’s going to be a fight and, honestly, Derek’s just not sure how long this game of pretending to aligned can go on.

Immediately his mind invents images of wolves storming the Stilinski house, hauling Gaby away kicking and screaming – the thought strays toward Stiles, his squared determined shoulders, how he refuses to give in to fear. He imagines Stiles standing on the porch, in the mist beyond it dozens of blue eyes flaring brightly; how terrified he would be.

Derek doesn’t lose composure. He assumes nothing until he knows everything. Like Talia.

He opens the door as Peter and his second, Vera, and a third man turn the bended path toward the house. The man is… not wolf. Not entirely human. _Spark._

They reach the doorstep too quickly for Derek’s liking. His mind is washed out, useless. He can’t help looking to Boyd. He’s calm as ever, alert, but calm.

“Nephew,” Peter says conversationally. He doesn’t sound angry, but the way Peter sounds and what Peter does are two very different things. There’s no way to gauge the situation.

“Peter,” Derek answers carefully. His wolf roars inside of him, desperate to be let loose, to mangle and tear and _kill_. He takes a steadying breath.

“Derek, this is Chance Bohannon,” Peter tells him, sweeping an arm toward the oddly dressed man at Vera’s elbow. He’s gawky, covered in very tight clothing and a top hat. As a supernatural being, Derek has seen some strange things, but a Spark dressed up like the Disneyland version of what people think a magic man looks like is certainly something new; he's wearing a _Jack Skellington_ belt buckle. 

“Charmed,” Bohannon says graciously, drawing out the word. His accent is obviously fake. Were he not so on edge, Derek would have been questioning whether or not this man literally fell out of a cartoon? He turns a questioning glance on his uncle.

“Mr. Bohannon wished to deliver some bad news to the two of us,” Peter says almost boredly. When his mother ran the territory sparks were a common occurrence. They came and went, sometimes looking for safe lodging or passage. But under Peter? He’s killed them before in self-defense and doesn’t trust them because of it. Derek’s never heard of a spark coming here of their own free will since his uncle took over; they know where they’re not welcome.

“Indubitably, Alpha Hale,” says Bohannon sorrowfully, “my good friend Krysia has failed to comply with Hale Territory bylaw. If memory serves, for many hundreds of years it has been mandatory that the death of a wolf be reported to the ruling Alpha. As the deceased is a known acquaintance of the both of yours, I thought it only right I come forward to each of you.”

Derek’s head is spinning. It takes him a moment to get around the fact that Peter’s not here for a challenge. By the look of him, he doesn’t want to be here at all. Vera, too, continually slides glances over Chance Bohannon’s carotid artery like she’s considering slashing it. But it does explain why, after she's kept her distance since Derek's arrival, she has come at all. No one gets close to Peter without going through Vera.

Derek doesn’t know much about her except that she wasn’t bitten by Peter. Wherever she came from, it was a bad place. The burn scars on her hands, arms and neck spider web over her skin in brutal, white streaks; defensive spark burns, the kind that doesn’t heal. He's never seen a spark attack a wolf. It doesn't really happen anymore. Despite the stories, Talia never bore any ill will toward them or any other shifting breed. Seeing the marks of conflict on Vera only makes him more nervous. 

“Who,” Derek asks, frowning.

“A portly fella by the name of Ashby Walcott, or so read his toe tag.”

“Walcott,” repeats Derek, looking to his uncle out of habit, the way he did when he was little. Peter always explained things to him as a child, was always there waiting with an answer. He thinks better of it too late. Peter’s not that man; not his uncle. Peter Hale is dead. The thing to his right is nothingness; a pit where a good wolf once stood.

Amused, Peter’s brow flicks at him and his belly churns. His uncle says, “Yes, I met Ashby once or twice. The Walcott’s favorite gamma; they even sent him to college.” The amusement turns crueler when he speaks. Peter’s never mistreated gammas in the past, that Derek knows of anyway, but he never much cared for them. An affluent, powerful pack boasts many, and that included the Hales at one time. Gammas, the caretakers, mean stability. To Peter, they’re only weakness. Leeches. An alpha can tell how a human will change before the bite, can feel their id, and Peter has never bitten anything, but potential betas.

“What’s wrong with that?” asks Isaac. Dread cinches in Derek’s gut. He glares over his shoulder at Isaac, commanding silence.

Peter cocks his head, “Interesting that you assume to have any place in a conversation among Alphas.”

“Who is Krysia?” asks Derek. He crosses his arms and angles himself between them as discreetly as possible.

“Mama Mercy,” replies Bohannon, “as she’s known ‘round these parts. I do hope this doesn’t get her in too much trouble. She’s awful old, slower in her age. Might be she didn’t notice Mr. Walcott was a werewolf. It _was_ hard to tell due to the – putrid, rotting nature of his corpse, y’see.” 

Derek regulates his heartbeat or tries to. He can’t help but glance at Peter’s smirking face. Everything his uncle hasn’t said is there in that one expression. _Leverage_.

Think. _Think_. Derek has to talk this out of proportion _right now_ , in front of Vera and Bohannon.

“I’ve met her,” he says instantly and Peter’s eyes sparkle with anticipation because Derek always fucks up when it comes to talking. He only has this one chance to keep Peter from Stiles’ grandmother… from Stiles.

“Oh?” asks Peter with intrigue.

Derek holds his gaze a moment, but he won’t get flustered, won’t lose his words like Peter wants him to. He grasps for his anchor, the anger that keeps him steady. Rage clears his mind as it always does, and there in the calmness, in the seconds before he gathers his speech, he thinks of eyes like gold coins in the sun, squinting, shining over a crooked half smile. He’s seen that expression so many times and every time he does it’s easier to breathe and it’s impossible to breathe all at the same time.

“Isaac threw her grandson into the bar at a dive downtown,” he says, “His father’s the sheriff. I thought I should go apologize.”

“Krysia never mentioned you,” says Bohannon, curiously.

“I’m not surprised. Her grandson said she hadn’t taken her medicine that day. I doubt she was aware of much.”

“It’s truly tragic,” sighs Bohannon. Were he not being so useful right now Derek would have snapped him in half. If this man knows Gumma, then he knows how whip-smart she is. Humans are so fucking petty. Maybe Bohannon thinks this is some kind of power play; that he’ll get on Alpha Hale’s good side by tattling. Why else would he have come here? It’s disgusting. Derek might not know much, but he does know that real sparks don’t turn on their own any more readily than a wolf turns on its pack.

“If only our power could keep us from such things,” sighs Bohannon, “My kind are highly susceptible to mental illness, especially in old age. The Stilinskis,” he blows out what’s supposed to sound like a remorseful sigh, “Krysia is slowly slipping to Alzheimer’s, her daughter-in-law done in by frontotemporal dementia and that boy,” he shakes his head, “Krysia tells me he’s so chemically imbalanced he can barely cast an ash line. All that power and no one to inherit. A shame, really.”

 _Breathe_.

“You saw Walcott’s body with her,” Derek asks evenly.

“I did. Poor old bird. Called me to help her examine it. As I said, she needs quite a bit of help these days. Missing the details can hardly be called her fault.”

“Sounds like she just made a mistake. One she probably didn’t know she was making,” Derek says with finality, “Thank you for bringing this to our attention.”

He wants to break down into a trembling mess. Keeping the hitch out of his breath, the quaking from his hands takes all of his concentration.

“Oh no trouble at all Alpha Hale,” beams Bohannon. This slime is self-diluted enough to think he’s endeared himself with his performance.

“You were really considering punishing a little old lady?” asks Isaac incredulously.

As Erica grabs his arm and pulls him sharply to her side, Peter says, “That’s the second time you’ve spoken out of turn.”

“ _Go upstairs_ ,” Derek snarls at them. Erica gives a curt nod and begins march Isaac from the room.

“Hang on, sweetheart,” Peter says, gliding passed Derek and into the cottage. Boyd hovers nervously in the kitchen archway, dividing his gaze between Derek and his mate, but Erica is smart. Too smart to do anything other than placate Peter. She keeps her eyes low.

“Isaac, was it?” asks Peter.

Isaac nods.

“Peter,” Derek says quietly, but with clear warning.

“Derek tries so hard to be a good alpha,” says Peter, ignoring him, “He provides for you; food, a place to live, a nice, warm bed to sleep in. Gammas take up so much time and effort for an alpha to maintain, and knowing how hard he works to make you happy you still insist on embarrassing him in front of his peers.”

“I’m not embarrassing him,” Isaac insists wide blue eyes on Derek. Derek vehemently shakes his head in an attempt to get Isaac to shut the hell up.

Peter asks with genuine curiosity, “Do you always look an alpha in the eye?”

For a brief moment, Derek prays with every fiber that Isaac will back down. He used to be afraid of everything and Derek’s broken him of most of that fear, gotten him shake the things his father did to him. He has as much anger as Derek, maybe more. Derek’s parents died, but’s Isaac’s _chose_ to hurt him. That kind of anger is externalized and burns like a wildfire. They used the anger to douse the fear, but Isaac’s nowhere near being able to control it, not yet.

His pack is horrified by what Peter’s done to Gaby, but of the three of them, Isaac’s perspective is the most personal. Peter hurt his own family; _chose to._ Made her weak, beat her, forced himself on her.  Derek knows Isaac won’t shy from a man like Peter, because he’s the one who taught Isaac men like Peter are weak; nothing but cowards. A real man doesn’t raise a hand to anyone unless it’s to protect others.

Derek is not shocked when Isaac spits, “You’re _not_ an alpha.”

Peter huffs a dark laugh –

Derek catches his arm when his uncle’s claw flies back, angled to rake across Isaac’s face. Peter sighs dramatically, but doesn’t pull away, “Derek, this is what happens you don’t spank your children.” Razor-like claw tips brush Derek’s Adam’s apple. Vera holds his throat gently. He can feel her watching Peter, waiting for a command.

“His insubordination is my fault,” Derek says, “I’ll take it.”

“Let him go,” Peter snaps, twisting out of Derek’s grip. His beta backs off obediently. Peter looks him over, eyes gleaming. He might not get to go after Gumma, and maybe this will ensure he doesn’t, but his uncle seems delighted by the consolation prize.

 

 

Stiles is counting down the register when he finds out just how much insubordination Peter is willing to tolerate in his own Den.

At first, he assumes the banging on the doors is some drunken asshole that needs a scare. He grabs the baseball bat from under the counter and throws open the door. The abruptness of the move might have thrown over the average wasted tourist – he’d knocked a few on their asses this way and it is _always_ hysterical – but not someone that can hear not only his footsteps but his heart beat even through the barrier.

The bat clatters to the floor.

“Oh my _God,_ ” he breathes, and jerks to push his way under Derek before he collapses. The man weighs a _metric ton_. “Buddy, you gotta – ah – help me a little.”

“I’m – ok,” Derek groans.

“You are the _opposite_ of ok,” Stiles snaps, hobbling them both inside. Hot blood sops into his shirt where his back is wedged under Derek’s chest. The claw marks down his front bring up bile that burns at the back of Stiles’ throat. He knows how it hurts, knows the feeling of exposed soft tissue and nerves, Christ how is Derek even awake?

It doesn’t matter if Derek’s an alpha. Wounds from another alpha won’t fade instantly. Stiles needs to stitch him up, stop the blood loss. God, he’s just so fucking heavy. They topple halfway to the counter. Stiles wriggles out from under him and shoves him over on to his back. He cups Derek’s face with both hands and his cheeks are clammy, “Hale, you _cannot_ die here – stay awake or I swear on all that is holy Gumma will resurrect you into a house cat.” 

He scrambles up, flails, tripping over himself, but somehow manages to get to the counter without breaking an ankle. He snatches the medical bag from the office and sprints back out.

Derek can't die. He can't. He's all that's really standing between the Stilinskis and Peter and, fuck Stiles _needs_ him.

He’s done this before. He’s seen worse – God there’s so much blood. He shouldn’t be doing this without snow packs or drugs or _something_ to numb the pain. All he has is a tiny tin of salve, but there isn't enough and it's certainly not strong enough to knock out hurt like this.

“Fuck, what did you do?” Stiles mutters a little hysterically. Derek’s hand squeezes his knee. Derek’s so controlled, it’s hard to imagine his anger getting the better of him. Then again his situation, having to stare down his cousin’s rapist every day, having to take orders from him – the fact that he’s held out this long seems like a miracle. Stiles should have stopped him that night at the bar, should have talked him down, _something._ This is his fault, he did this.

“G-Gaby,” Derek croaks, chest shuddering.

“She’s not here, big guy, she’s safe, it’s ok,” Stiles tells him, rubbing his wrist. He cuts off Derek’s shirt. It falls apart under the scissors, already in ribbons. Derek’s chest is macabre. Jesus, did Stiles look like this before it healed? How the hell did his dad stand it?

“I’m gonna sew it up,” Stiles says, more to himself than anything, “It’ll heal faster if I—,” the smell is unbearable. His hands are already coated in blood and he hasn’t even started. “What’d you do?” he asks again, voice quivering and small.

 Derek doesn’t respond and it’s the worst silence he’s ever heard. Stiles shakes him, “Hale?!” Blood roars in his ears. Holy shit, no – he rears back and punches Derek in the cheek.

The strike nearly breaks all his fucking fingers, but Derek’s eyes flutter open. 

“Stay awake!” Stiles yells at him, cradling his throbbing hand.

He can’t thread the needle. He can’t stop shaking.

“I’m ok…,” Derek rasps.

“Yeah, of course, you are bravewolf.” He jams the thread into the needle’s eye and thank fuck, the dear and fluffy Lord is looking out for him because it slides through and he cuts the length with his teeth.

His hands eventually steady a few minutes into the task. This is why he takes Adderall in the first place, for the laser fucking focus. When the shock dries up all that’s left is a highly functional mind quickly churning to stow away all of the fear and doubt.

Derek becomes more lucid as Stiles ties his gnarled flesh together. There’s a light amphetamine in the solution he uses to sterilize the lacerations before binding them, one meant specifically for werewolves. It won’t jumpstart the healing process exactly, but the faster he can regain himself the more effective his healing will be in the long run.

“You still with me?” Stiles asks under his breath, gentling tugging the thread taut.

“Yeah,” Derek grunts. His palm stays on Stiles’ knee, and it’s heartbreaking. There’s no one to hold his hand. His fingers clench every time Stiles brushes on something raw and his eyes flare crimson. His whole chest is a live wire of pain, it’s impossible not to strike bare nerves or muscle by accident. Stiles works as quickly as he can.

Finally, he ties off the last bracket and knots it. There are a few deep cuts on Derek’s face too, where a massive brace of claws raked him diagonally from his eyebrow to his hip.

What the shit-sipping fuck is even happening? The Den isn’t exactly close to town, or Bazaar for that matter.

Stiles lift’s Derek’s hand off his knee and clasps it in both of his.

“Did you walk all the way here, honey?”

Derek’s eyes are closed, pain crinkles his laugh lines. His lashes bleed together into thick charcoal smudges. He nods stiffly.

But Stiles knew that. It was Peter that did this, there is no doubt about it. Which means Deaton wouldn’t have fixed Derek up without explicit permission. He didn’t have a choice.

“Where the hell is your pack?”

“The Preserve,” Derek says tightly. The lines of his torn flesh are starting to fuse. Stiles has to look away. “Isaac mouthed off – took his punishment.”

Stiles’ mouth drops agape slightly. Because Peter wouldn’t have had qualms with putting down a disrespectful gamma; a gamma that wasn’t even his. Even if Derek had gotten Isaac here before he bled out there was no guarantee Stiles could have brought him back. Not even Gumma could have promised that. The only reason Derek is alive is because of the alpha spirit because it's too stubborn and wild to go quietly into the next place.

Challenging Peter over Isaac wouldn’t have gotten the pack support he’s counting on. He had to take it. Stand there and take being mauled.

“Derek,” Stiles murmurs. He runs his thumb over the back of his knuckles.

Derek grizzles out a sound that may have been meant as a wry laugh.

“You’re not going into shock are you?” Stiles asks, scooting a little closer to try and glimpse his pupil dilation.

“N-no,” he says breathily, “You – you never say my name.”

“What?”

“You’ve never – called me Derek.”

He hadn’t. Derek can’t be a person in Stiles’ mind. He’s a Hale. He has to only be a Hale.

“Does that – mean I’m – dying?”

“Calm down, Mr. Orange, you’ll live.”

Derek grimaces, his grip on Stiles tightens imperceptibly. His hand is warm and calloused. Stiles stays with him while his body mends. It takes a couple hours until he can sit up. Stiles helps him to one of the overstuffed chairs in the lore section and turns on the fireplace. Yes, it’s an esoteric shop and not having a real wood burner does bum out Stiles every once and while before he remembers that he doesn’t have to clean it ever.

But it does crackle or has sound effects that do, and glows and is relaxing. Stiles is a bit of a Mother Hen. He can’t help it. When your life is a taking care of a police officer with high blood pressure and a little, old woman with a rainbow of pills and shots that need regulating you sort of fall into a way of doing things.

Stiles leans by his chair and fishes the pot of salve from Gumma’s medicine bag. He snaps on a rubber glove, louder than necessary and Derek’s eyes go a little wide.

“It’s a numbing agent,” Stiles grins, holding up the tin. There’s not enough for his chest, but it’ll take the sting out of the gashes on his face. Stiles leans on the arm of the chair and smears it over Derek's cheekbone. Derek sits as still as possible. He winces at first, but the tension in his shoulders releases when the medicine starts to lace into his cuts.

Stiles can’t erase pain like a wolf can, but at least he isn’t completely useless.

“You better whoop Isaac’s ass for this,” Stiles says quietly as he generously applies the paste. Thick, dark lashes flutter on his knuckles. Little half-moons of green thrown by the firelight reflect off Derek's eyes over the tops of his cheeks. His focus stays on his hands in his lap, angling his face and bringing the distinct, straight line of his nose and under-lit corner of his mouth into relief.

Stiles pushes his head to the side. This close, he can smell Derek’s soap. It’s faint, it would have to be. It’s on his skin and in his hair, something herbal like rosemary and cut wood. Adjusting him billows the smell.

Derek allows himself to be manipulated without resisting.

Stiles catches his bottom lip in his teeth when he realizes just how much someone like Derek, someone who is part wild animal, would have to trust him to be handled like this.

“Boyd and Erica’ll reprimand him.”

Derek looks up at him. It’s hard to tell if he’s uncomfortable since he looks mildly uncomfortable all the time.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Stiles wants to smooth out the crease between his brows with his thumb. He notices the ghostly spray of freckles across the tops of Derek’s cheeks and gets another whiff of the male smell of his hair.

Derek’s head shakes, his mouth parted in answer. Non-color eyes continually flit to Stiles’ throat whenever Derek thinks he isn’t looking, and it tugs at him. Derek has a pack, but he just seems to so detached. Considering the loss of most of his family, his mother, and the fact that the pack he has now isn’t blood-related to him, maybe it’s not so hard to picture that chasm in him still unfilled.

He remembers Derek’s fingers rapping on his chest.

Stiles swallows.

He steels himself. He made this mistake once because he didn’t know what he meant. But this time what he wants to offer is completely in earnest. “You – uh – if you wanted, you don’t have to, but I mean, if you want to,” he can’t say it.

It’s a wolf thing, he’s not supposed to say it, right? It’s a feeling. A feeling he thinks he has, or the human equivalent. Derek is a Hale. He is. He’ll always be a Hale, but Scott’s right, he’ll never be _Peter_ and that should be the distinction that matters. A man that defends his pack and his family without a second thought, who was ready to put himself between a near stranger and his uncle, could never turn into something as corrupted and sick as Peter Hale.

Stiles, unsure of the right way to do it, brings his head to the side. He can’t help the nervous smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

He waits, stewing in his own awkwardness, for Derek to either tell him to stop being a massive twat or, well, do something. Impatiently, he angles his chin a little higher. There shouldn’t be any question about what he is offering.

Showing his neck to a wolf is so far against his own rigid instinct for self-preservation and the terror is there. Derek could rip his throat out, and the irrational little voice in his mind that will never quite recover screams at him to stop. But it’s overpowered by something bigger; by wanting to be touched again, to have the ability to comfort Derek if he can.

To comfort Derek who’s so careful. Who waits to put his hands on something until he’s asked.

His broad palm repositions Stiles. Derek guides him down until he’s not bent over the chair. Stiles kneels beside the armrest.

“You’re sure.” he hears Derek ask. It’s supposed to be a question. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Yes.”

Derek tentatively pulls him a closer, hand sliding down to cradle his head. He audibly sniffs a few times before coming too near; it’s a deep sound, one droning in his chest. He nudges Stiles’ throat with the tip of his nose. Stubble dusts over his skin, puckering it, and this – it’s not supposed to be sexual. Purely platonic. Bonding. Man-wolf-bonding; Derek’s tongue darts hotly over his pulse point and Stiles' brain sort of goes dark for a second.

His automatic response is always fear. It nips at his temples but fades just as quickly. He can feel the restraint in Derek’s arms, how they’re actually barely touching. Stiles is such a moron, he was right to be wary around the Hales at first, but it’s so plain now that the absolute last thing Derek would ever do is hurt him like that. He’s strong and gentle and kind – gruff and un-socialized, also yes. Stiles leans in against him, leans into the cool press of teeth and suck of air, hand absently locking on Derek’s upper arm.

Steam clouds over his skin and a hard breath pulls through Derek when he draws in Stiles’ scent. A dissolute moan rolls out of Stiles and he’s sure he’s ruined the whole thing; sure Derek is going to be insulted.

There’s no way he couldn’t have heard it, but instead of recoiling, his nose and mouth dig in a little harder until they’re both pushing against one another. Stiles’ cheeks burn a high scarlet, eyes squeezed shut, hand tightening on Derek’s bicep.

 Stiles keeps his mouth shut.

 _For the love of all that is good, and this is_ so good _, just don’t fucking say anything_ , he pleads with himself. His dick and his impulses need to shut the hell up so the adults can talk.

Derek rubs his cheek and chin in the hinge of Stiles’ jaw.

“Is it ok.” Derek asks, muffled against him.

“Yeah – good –,” and that didn’t sound at all desperate. Nope.

Derek draws in another breath and sits back, disengaging completely. In some strange turn of events, he looks more embarrassed than Stiles, if Stiles’ scowl deciphering skills have improved any.

Stiles is human. The smell probably wasn’t right, wasn’t what he wanted. Hurt, separated from his pack, Gaby, Peter, he probably wanted reassurance from his own kind. If he was in the same state, Stiles would much rather a bear hug from his dad than from a stranger. 

“Why don’t you crash at my place?” Stiles blurts, and, trying to recover from just how suggestive that sounds adds, “It's pizza night at my house.”

“I have to find the others.”

“Derek,” Stiles sighs and emphasizes the usage of his name to get his attention, “You got no shirt, bud, and you look like the Frankenstein Monster. Which is partly my fault because I’m a shit seamstress. So how about you eat pizza with me and Gabs and pretend to be a normal person for a few hours?”

Dubious is a hilarious arrangement of frown lines and eyebrows on Derek. Stiles imagines that it’s not such a far cry from the face he makes when he’s on the toilet.

“Or I could order, like, what? Salad? Can you even eat solid food in those jeans?”

That gets him annoyance and tiny eye roll, which Stiles interprets as ‘Yes, let’s have dinner, you’re the best Stiles and so moderately handsome’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine there will be some feelings in response to this chapter. 
> 
> Please take appropriate time to hand fan yourself. 
> 
> Damn Peter. He really puts the deep-v in evil. 
> 
> Derek's constipated inner monologue is fun/exhausting to write. All I'm saying is that this thing is from mostly Stiles' POV for a reason. 
> 
> The spark burns I'm sort of imagining like that lightening strike mark-thingie Stiles had in 3B? You know, when he was possessed by a malevolent spirit, taking amphetamines to stay awake and then was totally emotionally and physically able to bang a girl he didn't know who had the human comprehension and critical thinking skills of an eight-year-old? That mark. 
> 
> I dunno where you come up with this shit Jeff, I really don't. Yes, I see the irony of writing fan fiction (which is essentially free publicity) for a show that I strongly, morally, disagree with. But all dose abs doe. I am weak. 
> 
> Lemme know what you think friends!


	11. Want

Derek’s doggedly walking on his own by the time they get to the house. Rather than subject him to his sad-clown wolfsbane allergies – he used the last of Gumma's talc when he'd made up the herbal cocktail the last time Derek was here – Stiles points him over to the lawn chairs off to the side of the walk. Derek all but collapses into the nearest one.  

Stiles jogs into the house to clean himself off. Dried blood sloughs off into the sink, turning the water rosy. When he’s gotten as much as he can scrubbed off, he throws on a new t-shirt and jeans, catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and decides to try again.  

He tries three times before finding a lightweight hoodie that is less terrible than everything else.  

Lydia picked it out for him insisting that, yes, he  _can_ pull off salmon and that any shade of red or pink is ideal for setting off brown eyes. Stiles rubs his face. He’s – he looks fine. Fuck. Agonizing over a fucking shirt could literally eat up his entire night if the anxiety gets its way, so he forces himself back downstairs.  

Gumma is weaving Gaby’s hair in front of the TV, both of them entranced by the glowing screen. He smiles softly. Together they both look about eight years old. He decides not to bother them.  

Grumbling at himself he runs back upstairs to brush his teeth, because, shit, just because, ok? 

Stiles returns to the lawn with a cooler of beers, a mismatch of IPAs and ambers left over from his dad’s sixers and one of Sheriff Stilinski’s t-shirts, because let’s not kid, there is no way Derek will be able to shimmy into one of Stiles’ without tearing something.  

Since his father is the quintessential heterosexual, gen x-er their options are limited to clean and not clean. Stiles tosses Derek the Bass Pro Shop promotional shirt slung over his arm. It’s so thin and faded from years of washes the logo is barely visible and is pinpricked with tiny holes across the collar. John Stilinski is a solid sized man, but even this shirt looks like it pulls uncomfortably on Derek’s shoulders.  

“You got a preference?” Stiles asks as he grabs an India pale ale out at random. His dad only rotates between five or six brands. They’re all good and after the first couple, honestly, who gives a shit what they taste like?  

Derek shakes his head, eyes puzzling over the labels.  

“Don’t drink a lot?” Stiles guesses.  

“I don’t have time.”  

“That sounds miserable, here,” Stiles pinches off some powdered wolfsbane and hands over the bottle he’s holding, “If you don’t like it I’ll crack something else.”  

Nodding, Derek accepts it and sips. He holds it by the neck in a loose tangle of long fingers rather than in a fist. He nods appraisingly.  

“Good?” Stiles guesses, pleased with himself.  

“Yeah.”  

“Good.” Stiles uncaps a Flat Tire with the bottle opener on his keys and throws back several gulps. He may have washed the blood off his hands and changed his clothes, but he still feels drenched in it.  

“I’m sorry,” Derek says quietly. He’s not very good at apologies. They don’t sound genuine, more like he’s frustrated at the social expectation of them. It’s surly and prickly – and cute.  

“I don’t want this to be a thing we do every Thursday, but it’s not a big deal. You can,” Stiles shakes his head because everything he says sounds so cheesy, “I’d rather you came to me than, shit, I don’t know, die?”  

“Where’s Gaby?”  

“Gumma’s braiding her hair. They’re watching Nate Berkus.”  

“She’s happy?”  

Stiles nods, “Yeah, I’d say so.” No point in mentioning the night terrors or the fact that she seems to sleep about sixteen hours a day when she’s not having them. Stiles has been there. Sometimes you just got to do whatever comes naturally. Compared to other depressive behaviors, he’d much rather she slept all day than do anything that might hurt her. Even if it means indefinite banishment to the couch, which it does, and his back is a mess.  

Derek comes forward in his chair and braces his elbows on his knees. “Both her grandmothers died before she was born.”  

“But she had Talia, right?”  

Seafoam eyes are on him at her mention. “Yeah,” he affirms, bottle pressing more aggressively to his lips.  

“Is the house you picked out nice?” Stiles asks, sidestepping the topic of his mother. Talk of Talia at this exact moment seems unwise.   

“It’s old,” Derek obliges, “I like old houses.”  

“I don’t. Most of the shack,” he jams his thumb at his house, “is held together by duct tape and manly willpower; damn stink bugs every which place, water stains – a fucking chunk of ceiling just sorta  _fell_  and hit Scott in the shoulder last summer. You gimme shiny new digs any day over this garbage heap.”  

“I like your house.”  

Stiles chuckles, “We’re sit’n on the lawn ‘cause you can’t stand going in.”  

“I’d like it better if it wasn’t made of mountain ash and full of werewolf poisons.”  

“Blame your uncle for the upgrades.” 

Derek’s brow flicks in concession and he takes another pull.  

“How you planning to break the news of your recent purchase to him anyway? I mean, I guess, it’s not like he can stop you without admitting that he’s a depraved lunatic.”  

“I told him I’m planning on courting Dara Charlebois; moving into their territory under that pretense is old fashioned, but not unheard of.”  

“Is Dara Charlebois aware of your intentions?”  

Derek gives him a flat stare that could literally go either way and there’s no way to tell which.  

“She is?” Stiles guesses.  

“Her and her mother, Alpha Charlebois, are the only ones that know what’s going on. She agreed to keep the real reason a secret.” 

Telling Alpha Charlebois had to have been a necessary evil. That must have been a fucked conversation to struggle through. How Derek isn’t a raging alcoholic or worse is a mystery. Although, Stiles suspects that stress relief for a werewolf falls somewhere along the lines of shifting and tearing small woodland creatures into smaller pieces.  

“And your pack? Are they ready for Gaby?”  

“I’ve talked to Boyd about it. None of them have ever known an omega. Omega scents can be,” he pauses as he mulls over the right word, “confusing to wolves that didn’t grow up with them. I don’t know if I can transition them the right away.”  

“When are you going?”  

“Alpha Charlebois’s emissary is warding the house – she won’t be done for a while.” Derek’s attention lurches passed Stiles, back down the flagstone walk. He’s hypervigilant, he should be for all the insanity of the last few days, especially tonight. If humans had hackles, his would on end. His reaction also makes Stiles go still, head craned over his shoulder at the lightless lane. 

 An engine rumbles down the thicketed road a moment later and the cruiser pulls onto the lawn.  

“My dad,” Stiles sighs with relief, his voice a deflated laugh.  

Derek’s not looking at him or John Stilinski as he ambles out of his car. He’s looking at Stiles’ hand where he’s holding it over the back of Derek’s, fingers wrapping his palm.  

Stiles doesn’t remember moving to do it.  

Not cool. Not fucking cool. What the hell is  _wrong_ with him? Christ, are they sixteen years old and watching a horror movie? Is that really his move? His move he didn’t realize he was making? What the fuck. No question mark needed, just what the  _fuck_.  

Stiles gurgles out a humiliated chuckle, maybe apologizing, maybe not, it’s hard to tell over the volley of internal swearing, and retracts his hand – Derek’s fingers close on the tips of Stiles’, stapling him in place. Stiles gapes at him, but he’s still looking down, still fixed on their slotted hands.  

When he does look up Stiles doesn’t need written instructions to read the countenance in his eyes.  

It’s unmistakable  _want_ , the kind of look that strips a person down.  

It heats right through him, an ember at the nape of his neck that turns his spine into a fuse, burning down its column until it rotates hotly in his gut. His heart thunders under his ribs and Derek’s head goes to the side at the sound.  

Stiles dry swallows, mouth falling open –  

“Hey kiddo,” his dad calls as he strides up the path. Derek releases his hand discretely and knocks back another drink, heavy, breath-stealing gaze going elsewhere.  

Twisting in his seat Stiles answers, too quickly, “Hee-ya Daddy,” and his voice cracks for the first time since high school.  

John comes to stand over them and gives Stiles a pat on the back.  

“You’re…,” the Sheriff frowns and his eyes are immediately back on Stiles.  

“Uh, yeah, dad, this is Derek,” Stiles tells him.  

Derek’s lips make a small ghost of a smile at the usage of his name and being the object of that private smile makes Stiles’ chest ache in response. The attraction a flare striking to life and it's not the first time it has been struck; even if nothing about it makes sense, if it’s not at all the right time, it’s there. Arousal is one thing, but this is deeper; flint sparking in his soul at something it recognizes, something it needs to be close to.  

 “The Hale kid,” John says sternly, folding his arms.  

Derek’s already on his feet extending his hand, “Sheriff.”  

Stiles’ father regards him, before shaking. John likes Gaby, loves her really, but he’s never actually spoken to Derek, only heard bits and pieces second hand.   

“That my shirt?”  

Derek looks down at himself. 

“Derek wiped out in a puddle on the way over,” Stiles jumps in, also standing, “None of my stuff woulda fit.” Something about knowing what he must smell like and that he smells this way in front of his oblivious father catches him between wanting to take a shower to scrub off the guilt and beg Derek bend him over the hood of the cruiser.  

He can scarcely chase down his breath.  

John’s eyes narrow, “That’s not what you wearing this morning.”  

“That’s – very observant, papa bear.”  

“Well, son, I do head up the police department.”  

“That you do.”  

“You staying for dinner, Derek?” the Sheriff asks after one more hard look at his son.  

“If you don’t mind. I haven’t seen Gaby in a few days.”  

John shrugs, though it is clear his level of trust for any member of the Hale family is still firmly planted in the red, “Fine by me,” to Stiles, he asks, “you already order, kid?”  

“Oh, no, I forgot.”  

John Stilinski’s keen, bright stare goes between them again and Stiles winces at the apprehension, even if it’s not entirely founded; it’s the kind of look no one ever wants from their parent. The kind that says ‘ _You know about condoms, use them’_.  

With a curt nod, he starts towards the house.  

“Soo,” Stiles forces out, “I believe there was mention of salad or maybe liquefied kale, which is probably more in your wheelhouse, but it might be harder to find a place that delivers.”  

Derek’s forehead crinkles over the lift his dark brow, arms folding across his chest. He steps in, closing the space in until the string of air between them is a matter of inches. Stiles stays his ground, fingers and chest prickling. His groin aches despite himself. Derek leans in and Stiles tenses, gasp hissing out of him. He hears Derek inhale by his cheek, feels the blazing heat of a wolf pouring off him.  

How is he this stiff and not touching anything? This is either the most embarrassing or hottest thing that has ever happened. Probably both. Both. For someone with his track record though, the fact that he hasn’t uncoordinatedly tried to climb Derek like a fucking tree yet or done or said something equally ludicrous that ultimately ends in too much ice cream and jerking off alone is a supernatural phenomenon. He’s basically John Travolta.  

Derek's nose flares a few times, his eyes hooded. The longer that gaze stays on him the more Stiles is certain that it's making his body react; pushing more scent, more pheromones, into the air. He wonders idly if there's a way to control it, to turn it off. But why should he want to? Scent doesn't lie. His skin is doing all the work, telling Derek exactly what he wants, what he's thinking without him having to drudge up the courage to say it himself.  

It's a shaky feeling. He convinces himself that silence isn't exactly rejection. And even if it is, he's made for rejection; he doesn't crave it like a lunatic, but he can compartmentalize it, understand it. It's the waiting that's nettling him, getting him flustered, no doubt dying him in dark red splotches.  

“Pizza’s fine,” Derek mutters, the border of his tone tipped in smugness. As if that matters, as if the torrid puffs of his breath on Stiles’ temple allow for him to process anything other than their proximity.  

“So, uh, so like – everything on it, or –,” holy fuck he needs to stop, but it’s just word vomit at this point, “or gluten and fat and pizza free?”  

“Shut up, Stiles.”  

“No. You smell –  _awesome_.”  

An approving hum emanates from Derek’s core, “Thank you,” the next part sounds like it slides through a smile, words soft and shy and low, “So do you.”  

 Stiles is eye level with his jaw, but can’t quite force his eyes to go any higher. He hears a couple more intakes of breath and feels the tingle of closeness, but Derek won’t touch him. He’s waiting patiently for permission.  

Stiles rests a hand in the valley of his chest. The place where Derek showed him. His heartbeat is just as fast, no matter how self-possessed he seems. Stiles, uncomprehending of the fluttering under his fingers, not able to quite capture the idea that he could make someone like Derek nervous, stares dumbly at his own hand.  

Stiles shakes his head to clear it. 

“We should, um, go check on my dad. He’s a little tech-tarded; almost threw his laptop out a window last week tryna pay the gas bill online.”  

Because Derek is a Hale. Because of Gaby. Because Stiles knows how this ends.  

Derek claps his hand over Stiles’ before he can move away. Meeting his stare is more out of misplaced defiance than anything else, but it’s a mistake, because, God, his eyes are beautiful and determined and devastating. At his hand trapped to Derek’s chest, the thumping of Derek's heart and fervor of his skin under the thin fabric of his shirt, Stiles  _weakens_. Derek’s fingers splay over his hand, thumb smoothing over his knuckle.  

Derek nods after a moment, tri-color eyes scraping against Stiles and he lets go.  

“Also, he will get nothing but anchovies and olives if I don’t supervise,” Stiles tells him, brightly. Nothing that happens now will be good for any of them. He doesn’t want to fuck this – whatever it might be – up. “Because he’s a sick, sick man.”  

That shadow of a smile wisps at the corners of Derek’s mouth, his eyes low. Stiles trots back toward the house and feels Derek following.  

“Stiles,” Derek calls, halting him in place and Stiles looks back at him. “When it’s over,” he pauses, grappling for words and then, “I want to take you out.” Stiles blinks, a no doubt slack expression dominating his features, “On a date,” Derek clarifies unnecessarily, likely because Stiles looks like he just forgot how to speak English.  

Regaining himself, Stiles asks slyly, “Are you trying to seduce me?”  

A smile, close-lipped, but a real smile, stretches Derek's mouth and a puff of air snorts from his nose. “Is it working?” he asks trying to hold it down, cheeks and ears pinker.  

Exasperated, Stiles’ arms flap and he answers, “ _Shit_  yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My bad guys. This chapter is late. I'll go sit in the corner. 
> 
> This is how I imagine Derek Hale fucking flirts. Which is to say staring and nothing else. 
> 
> There will still be an update on Sunday - sweet baby christ willing. Not a lot of notes on this one since it's basically just fluff. Fluff is my favorite.


	12. Message

Derek doesn't text much, or really ever, so when Stiles' phone chirps him awake at four in the morning a gasp might escape him and he might get a flood of warm sudsy feelings in the pit of his belly.

It says: 'You smell as good as you taste'.

To which Stiles has no fucking response. What does that shit even mean? A rash of horror convinces him for a solid ten minutes that this was clearly meant for someone else until his brain comes fully online and he remembers Derek scenting him; his hot tongue lapping over Stiles' pulse. His palm absently rubs the spot.

Eventually, after many drafts, he texts back, 'You're right'. Brevity is the soul of wit? Stiles calls that move sass-flirting; or he would, if he was such a self-obsessed, bordering on Dennis Reynold sociopathic douche that required labels for his flirting technique. He flushes when he reads over Derek's words one more time before turning off his phone and curling around his pillow.

 

With Peter not taking Derek's bait (thank infant Jesus) it's become very clear that the best solution is Derek taking off with Gaby and Stiles and Gumma stepping in to secure her safety.

Secure is a loose term. Not that they aren't going to try, rather... well, honestly, the method isn't quite an exact science and it's going to leave a few – not gaping, but more than slightly present - loose ends if Peter's betas sniff around too much. Which, Scott insists they won't, as they stuff the – thing into the back of the Jeep. At this stage, there's no other word for it, though Stiles has been bouncing the name Trevor around in his mind grapes (where the thoughts ferment) for a couple days. Calling the thing, Thing just seems cruel.

He's been anticipating the next thing Scott says for awhile now, because, let's not kid, Stiles hasn't exactly been around as much as he used to. He's known the conversation was a long time coming, but now that it's here, his stomach is going squiggly.

"Are gonna tell me what this thing's for?" Scott asks, forcing the Jeep's hatch shut. He doesn't sound mad, but he's sure as shit not joyful.

"Trevor."

"Who's Trevor?"

Stiles shakes his head, "I think it looks like a Trev-,"

"Dude."

Stiles' lips thin and he kicks the dirt. He's a pretty good liar. Experimenting with Scott's hearing has yielded useful results for the most part; that in conjunction with the exercises he's learned to regulate his heartbeat, and more importantly his anxiety, have made lying to a wolf (when he's not totally shit-brain-panicked/terrified for his life) a little easier. He thinks of Derek then, of that moment when he saw Derek physically make the choice not to lie to him and decides that's probably what he looks like right now to Scott.

He opens his mouth to lay down the softest version of the truth when Scott says, "Forget it."

And Stiles doesn't push. He already knows what's turning in the gears. Scott out here, in the middle of the woods, after days of not hanging out, to test run Trevor. Every time they see each other lately, it's never just to see each other. Stiles shifts from foot-to-foot ducks his head as Scott walks past him toward the woods. Darkly, he thinks that he's not quite done taking advantage of his best friend yet.

 

"You waiting for a text?"

Stiles blinks, shoves his phone into his back pocket as if moving fast enough will argue its existence and function altogether. The motion only makes him more suspicious by the skeptical look in Scott's eyes.

"Stuff at home," Stiles says with a shrug, and, it's not exactly a lie, now, is it? Stuff is going down at home. Most recently, hotwolf. Hotwolf flirting (maybe? Who can really tell with Derek?). No, screw self-doubt. That was totally flirting. He got asked out for fucksake. And is subsequently trying to squelch a very persistent need to squee. Seriously, though, he does need to cool it on the phone checking. That's just setting himself up for disappointment because Derek 'what is the internet' Hale doesn't text (with certain late night exceptions, apparently). And if Stiles initiates that shit? It'll be Bad News Bears: Explicit Marriage Proposal Edition.

He mentally shrugs; impulses.

"You used to be good at lying," Scott tells him, shouldering a felled log out of his way.

"I still am," insists Stiles, "You're just a superhero now."

Scott chuckles. He presses to the ground, to the muddy leaves carpeting the log's depression. Technically, yes, there is police tape still up, but honestly, that's probably because they forgot to take it down, not because the crime scene is still active. The department isn't exactly stretched thin at the moment; things just move a little slower in Hollow Downs. This was the last place Stiles wanted to come back to, but all his other leads – if they can be called that – are dead.

Ashby Walcott basically appeared out of thin air. His driver's license was a fake, his social security number belonged to a dead woman name Lilian Guzman, no known address, etcetera. None of that is surprising for a werewolf, just very, very unhelpful in trying to solve the man's murder. Walcott, even in death, is apparently set on making this as difficult as possible.

"Well," says Scott leaning back onto his haunches, "He definitely died here. And is definitely a werewolf."

"You don't say," grumbles Stiles.

"Dude, I'm not exactly good at this."

Stiles groans, "We have to be missing something. I mean, come on, werewolves don't just peel off all their skin and die for no reason. The killer's smell has to be here."

Scott shrugs, "I dunno man, it's been a couple weeks, you know? Even if the body was here for a while, the smells are almost gone. It just smells like woods and – death, I guess?"

But Walcott came to Hollow Downs for a reason! Stiles wipes a hand over his forehead. Ashby thought he was being cursed, or that someone might try to curse him, he tried to go to Gumma for help, so what the fuck was chasing him? How can it have just vanished?

"I still think we should call Derek," Scott sighs, "he's like werewolf Obi-Wan. Maybe he'll get something I'm missing.”

Stiles takes a thought break just to acknowledge the bond Scott is creating with Derek. He may not know all of the details, what they talk about – if anything – but Scott’s never wanted to know more

about his power other than how to control it. Recognizing that Derek knows more at all feels like the first step to admitting his eagerness to learn.

Regardless of that small win, it’s hard not to feel completely stuck squatting here in the woods with no clue what to look for. Derek might be better at sorting smells, but Stiles has faith that even Scott can distinguish between the smell of something dead and something….

"Holy shit," Stiles' eyes go wide, his chest flooding with dread and excitement. He gapes at Scott who stares back confusedly, "Scotty, you're right."

"I know?"

"No! Scott, it smells like death, right? Like rotting?"

"Yeah," Scott says dryly, "that dude died here?"

For Scott there wouldn't be much distinction between the odor of Ashby's corpse and the general smell of something else rotting, would there? Like some kind of death camouflage.

"It was at my house," Stiles forces out.

"What was?"

He grabs his phone, starts punching in commands until he finds Derek's number, "The killer! The killer was outside my house!"

Of course, he doesn't fucking answer. Of course.

He tries Boyd instead, swearing very loudly, and as it rings, Scott asks, "What do you mean? Who's the killer?"

"I dunno, I – it's probably, fuck I don’t know. But it was at my house, Derek said he smelled something dead near the windows."

"Why was Derek at your house?"

Stiles' face heats up, his mouth dropping open, but the line picks up before an explanation can exit him. "Boyd!"

"What?" comes the hard baritone of Derek's second.

"Dude, I need to talk to Derek-,"

"He's busy-,"

"The killer's some kind of creature! Like a dead, killer zombie or... something."

"What killer?"

Right. He hadn't brought up Ashby's death with the Hale Pack. He hadn't wanted to admit to Derek what he'd allowed to happen to Mr. Walcott. But he knew what to do know, knew what to look for and Derek knew the scent; he could fix this.

"A werewolf got skinned outside town a while ago and I think it's some sort of creature that did it."

A pause and then, "Skinned?"

"Yeah, it was incredibly horrifying and I personally will never eat raw fish again-," he's cut off by scrabbling and growling on the other end of the line as someone wrestles the phone from Boyd.

Erica's voice asks shrilly, "When the cops found him was the skin gone? Like they haven't found it yet?"

"Yeah?"

Stiles assumes that Erica throws a hand over the mic while she says something fevered to Boyd. Part of him wants to point out the mute button built into every phone, but he takes an irritated breath instead.

"Why was Derek at your house?" Scott repeats stolidly.

"It's a long story."

Erica says quickly, "Someone else got killed like that this morning. Your dad and a bunch of cops just showed up here and took Derek in for questioning."

"What?"

"They said his phone pinged a cell tower near the body around the time of the murder."

He says with a steady exhale, stomach flipping, "What time?"

"Early morning, three or four."

Stiles swallows and tells her, "I'm gonna go get him," and ends the call.

"I'm coming with you," Scott says instantly as they jog back to the car.

"No!" Stiles nearly shrieks. No. He can't, this is going to get bad enough and the station is the last place Scott should be. Scott snatches Stiles by his elbow and Stiles near wipes out in the mud but manages to stay standing.

"Dude what the hell's go'n on?" Scott snaps, "Derek's pack is being weird, you're never around; every time I try to come over you deflect until I drop it. You gotta talk to me, dude!"

"Scott this is really, so not the time-,"

"No, fuck that," Scott growls, "we barely hang out anymore and you're constantly lying to me. Are you in trouble? Is it Peter?"

Blinking too hard Stiles shakes his head and cuts out, "Please, dude, I'll explain it, but not right now, ok? I'm gonna find out what's going on and then I'll tell you everything, but I gotta go."

Scott's mouth tightens and Stiles heart throbs. This isn't fair. He knows it. He can see Scott's perspective so clearly, it crushes him. They were already brothers before any of this and if there was any

silver lining at all it was being brought closer amid the tragedy. Shutting him out is wrong. Not knowing how to broach the topic isn't an excuse and sidestepping like a child is worse.

Stiles plants a hand on Scott's shoulder and squeezes, "I swear we'll meet up tonight and I'll explain."

"Yeah," comes out of Scott. The warning isn't in his voice or his posture, but his eyes. Their friendship isn't so fragile it'll crumble under duress; that doesn't mean it can't warp. All relationships change, it'd be naïve to think otherwise, but those changes shouldn't come from lies. Stiles gives a quick nod, acknowledging his own promise and what it will mean if he breaks it as they make for the Jeep.

 

 

“Where is he?” Stiles demands.

John comes charging from his office to intercept him.

“Goddammit Stiles-,”

“He didn't do this, dad. It was a monster!" He hisses.

His father grips his arm too tightly and drags him into whisper-shout, “You're probably right, but I can't exactly explain to an entire police department that there's a crazy skin eating monster on the loose and that's why the Hale kid is innocent!”

“Cell tower pings are unreliable, you can't prove it was him using the phone and even if it was him, since when does proximity to a dead person automatically make you the killer?!"

John herds his son into his office and shuts the door, "Stiles, deaths like this, even if there's only two of them, they look like the beginning of a serial spree. The Mayor's office is all over me and when this breaks in tomorrow's papers, the town is going panic. I can't ignore what's in front of me-,"

"You don't really think Derek did this," scoffs Stiles.

"I don't want to," replies his father, leaning back on his desk, arms crossed.

"Are you kidding-"

"Stiles, if you'd studied when Gum tried to teach you, you'd know that skinning another wolf and keeping the pelt as a trophy is an ancient werewolf custom. There are still packs that practice it and we don't know much about Derek Hale," Stiles starts to argue and his dad silences him with a hand, "I realize that you two are close, but you didn't see his face the last time he was in here. The last time I saw Derek you were little; Vergennes brought him in after Kate Argent set his house on fire and he was," John shakes his head, "it was like he was dead too. I ain't say'n trauma makes you a bad person, but it can make you an unpredictable one. If he did this, he might not even know he was doing something wrong."

"He wouldn't hurt anyone," Stiles implores, "you have to believe me. He's the last person in this town that could kill someone like that."

"He knew the victim, kid."

"Who?"

Tightly, John clears his throat, "It's Chance."

"Bohannon?!"

"Yeah, damn shame."

Stiles rolls his eyes, "Hell it is-,"

Eyes narrowing, his father levels a finger at him and snaps, "Don't you speak ill a' the dead. Chance been a good friend of your gramma's a long time."

Chance Bohannon was a narcissistic, mooch that was rarely around when Gumma had need of him regardless of the lifetime of favors she'd done him. He'd have sold all their souls to Old Scratch for his own gain if the opportunity ever presented itself. Stiles chews on his lip in order to keep these thoughts to himself.

"Derek doesn't know Bohannon," he huffs.

"He does. Chance went to the Den a couple weeks ago to speak with Peter," unhappily he adds, "Peter confirmed it."

"That's not enough to hold him."

"It's not, and Derek's fancy attorney is making damn sure Parrish knows it. Either way, it's my job to follow up on these leads."

 

Stiles waits around until Derek's released from custody. His lawyer _is_ pretty damn fancy... and mean looking. Her sharp suit and shiny briefcase stink of expensive degrees. Oh, and she's a werewolf.

As she escorts Derek to the parking lot – both of them brushing by Stiles – her eyes light up blue when she looks him up and down, her nose crinkled like a foul smell has worked into the air. Grinding his teeth, Stiles waits a few moments and then follows them out. It's likely not a good idea for him to be seen with a suspected murderer, but Stiles is also the town weirdo, so... fuck it.

"Are you ok?" He asks, jogging up to them.

"What are you doing here." Derek asks after a moment. He's rigid, uncomfortable, but that's about all Stiles can read from his posture. It's not him making Derek uncomfortable? Right?

"Looking out for your wellbeing?"

"Good Lord," chuckles the lawyer, "when's the last time you took a shower?" Her hand is cupped over her nose and mouth as if the scent of Spark blood is overwhelmingly rank.

Forget that Stiles came straight here, that he's been worried out of his mind that something might happen to Derek, that he'd been entertaining thoughts of perjury in case Derek had formally been charged; no, this woman has a problem with his smell. He should have had something witty-er in the chamber, but his goddamn brain is still firing on too many cylinders and he's a little overstimulated so all that makes it's way out of him is: "Are you fucking serious?"

"Mouthy," she grins, eyes bright. Suddenly Stiles is very aware of just how vulnerable he is. This wolf is taller than him; her strength evident even under the dark lines of her suit. She looks at him like Peter does; like she hasn't decided if he's a plaything or a snack. His back prickles.

"That's enough," Derek growls. They stare each other down until she rolls her eyes and saunters to her car. Derek waits for her to pull away before saying, "You shouldn't be here."

"How about, 'I'm sorry you were so worried Stiles, thank you for driving all the way out here to make sure I wasn't wrongfully imprisoned'."

"I didn't do it."

Stiles flaps his arms, "I know you didn't. What's up with you, you're being way more surely than normal."

"You shouldn't be here," he repeats.

"One more time for the people in the back," snaps Stiles, "I am aware, Derek. I know how this looks," he shakes out his frustration and then wheels back around, "What were you doing out in the woods last night?"

Derek crosses his arms petulantly, and if Stiles didn't know better, he'd say he almost looks a little hurt. Derek says, "I didn't do this."

"I don't think you did," Stiles says instantly, "were you chasing the thing that did do it?"

"I wasn't in the woods last night."

"Cell tower relay isn't super reliable, but you had to be somewhere close to there-,"

"I wasn't there."

"I got a text from you around the time Chance was killed, I'm pretty sure that was the ping," Stiles says quickly, pulling out his phone to show Derek the timestamp. Derek glances at the phone and his brow tenses for a moment as he reads.

"I didn't send that."

Stiles blinks. Right. How out of character had that text been in the first place? Very. Because Derek doesn't text and his flirting isn't exactly overt. So.

What. The. Fuck.

Stiles' skin starts to crawl. He stares at the message again. It's a personal, sexual message and coming from anyone but Derek it makes him feel sick, violated.

_You taste as good as you smell._

Derek picks up on his unease the second it starts to waft off of him. Stiles can feel his wolf's air shift from frustrated and annoyed to concerned as he realizes, too, what the message implies.

"I haven't had my phone for two days," Derek mutters, "I thought I dropped it on a run."

"Someone you know has it," Stiles manages, "someone that knows I, that we...." No one would know. Maybe Stiles' dad and Derek's pack, but they wouldn't do something like this. Derek's fingers touch the spot in the middle of Stiles' chest, his eyes low and furious.

"Peter," he says under his breath. Stiles' mind had been working its way in that direction, he just hadn't wanted to think it. His family and, probably Scott, would have tried to spare him knowing something like that. That Peter is still lurking, still trying to keep him scared. The wolf was still out there in the dark. Anyone who knew him, wouldn't have said it. Stiles closes his eyes for a moment as the dread subsidies. It's replaced by sun-soaked feeling.

He says quietly, "I'm not weak to you."

Derek hovers closer into his space, hand still firmly resting on Stiles' chest. He breathes in heavy through his nose and his warmth beats out even the Spring heat.

"No," Derek answers.

 

 

Scott leans back in the diner booth, absorbing.

Stiles hadn't realized how badly he needs to tell his best friend everything that had happened. Once he started, the words spilled out in torrents and now here they are, Scott's brow pinched and Stiles chewing the straw of his milkshake into a ruin.

"So," Scott tries and then abandons the question for a moment. His mouth and endearingly crooked jaw wobble a couple of time before he starts again, "Derek's... cousin?"

"Gaby," Stiles says gently.

"Gaby was being kept... prisoner by Peter who's also her uncle?"

Swallowing Stiles gives an affirmative nod.

"And Peter... he," anger paints Scott's face scarlet, his hands clench into fists. "You shoulda told me, I could've helped."

"You can’t go near her," Stiles insists, "Derek says there's something about her smell that'll make you weird, or aggressive or something. He still trying to figure out how to get his own pack near her without traumatizing her more."

"Fine, but we have to do something, he can’t keep hurting people and getting away with it!"

"That's what Trevor's for; it'll work, for sure. I'm like, 76% positive Trevor will work."

"That helps Gaby, but it doesn't do anything about Peter. Maybe Derek fighting him isn't the worst idea."

Stiles swallows a mouthful of shake painfully quickly and, amid his gasping, shouts, "Why is tearing each other apart everyone's go-to? How is it I'm the most moral person of the group; I chaotic good at best. _At best_ , Scott."

"He's never gonna stop, dude!" Scott implores, "I don't want to kill anyone either, but he's never gonna stop. I don't know much about wolf stuff, but I do know how strong the pack instinct is. You don't hurt pack. You definitely don’t rape pack or, or fucking anyone - _ever_. It's like he's rabid. You can’t fix a rabid dog, you have to put it down."

"You sound like Argent," Stiles says idly.

"Yeah, well," Scott huffs, "He hates wolves for a reason, you know, maybe he just met too many like Peter."

"Scott, you know that Peter being a monster doesn’t make you one, right?"

"I'm not a monster," Scott agrees, "but I am... I am a wolf. I can't let another wolf keep hurting people."

Stiles is going to buy all the pro-wolf, go team go swag he can get his hands on; that's how fucking proud he is right now. Chirps of excitement don't even make it out of him before Scott shrinks with embarrassment and says, "Dude, stop looking at me like that."

Stiles squeaks, "To what are your referring browolf?"

"The point," Scott says, edging on annoyance at the sheer, pants-wetting, adoration emanating from Stiles' side of the table, "is that I wanna help get Gaby outta here and then we have to deal with Peter."

Stiles pulls himself slightly more under control, so as not to spoil this revelation for Scott too much, "I'm gonna table the 'let's murderize Peter Hale' plan indefinitely. First, we get Gaby to a safe place, then we can revisit the rancid, blazing dumpster fire that is Derek's uncle."

Scott chases a few fries around on his place as a sly smile creeps onto his mouth. He meets Stiles' eyes and asks, "How come you usually have something in your mouth when you talk about Derek?"

Stiles spits out his straw, appalled.

"Ok, firstly, not even true and B: because I like to pretend it's his throbbing member."

Scott makes a face like he's holding down vomit. Serves him right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, hi there! 
> 
> So... yeah, took an unintentional break from Stay and now it's back! Sorry my bros. Sosorry. BUT. All the time away did give me a change to rework a lot of it in my spare time so that hopefully these next chapters, and, eventually, the end are cohesive. Not sure what the post schedule will look like through the holidays just because, well, when I'm not cooking I will be drinking a whole lot. A WHOLE lot. I anticipate the embarrassing slideshow of blurry pics on New Years Day to look something like the drunk Yuri Katsuki reel at the end of episode 10. 
> 
> SO LONG 2016. FUCK YOU VERY MUCH. ENJOY BEING KNOWN AS THE YEAR ALL OF HUMANITY UNDERWENT A MASS GAS LEAK. 
> 
> ahem. 
> 
> Scott admits he's a wolf! Yay! We'll get more into that shit later my friends. Despite my salty feelings towards Posey, I do actually like Scott as a character, though he was never better then he was in the first season. Blahblahblah dynamic character growth *shrieking in the void*, whatever man, ok, like, Scott was the best when he was more like Jason Stackhouse. Handsome, kinda stupid, but well-intention-ed, wibbly wobbly timey whimey wubba lubba dub dub. 
> 
> Enjoy my guys! Happy nondenominational Yuletide to ye, traveler!


	13. Cordate

Gaby holds Stiles' hand.

She’s never touched him in that way before. Her grip is crushing, squeezing like she’s trying to take his blood pressure. He doesn’t shy from her, though. A little pain is nothing compared to the rest of it.

They stand on the lawn with Gumma and John flanking them, the low, saturated sun bleeding last light through the trees. The smells of his grandmother’s cooking breathes out from the open windows behind them.

This is fine. Totally fine.

Except, Boyd’s eyes have been glowing since he stepped out of Derek’s car. Something about the expression makes him look hungry. Beside him Derek supervises. He’s composed, a reassuring sight to rest of them, but not enough to boil out the tension. Let it be known that Stiles fought this encounter to the end, but Derek refused to listen to pristine logic. Yes, they have to introduce Gaby into the pack – something about imprinting? – that he understands. He’s good with it.

Stiles had taken the time to scrawl out the reasons on paper why Boyd was a bad first step.

 

Stiles Stilinski’s List of Reasons:

_1\. Boyd is a dude._

_2\. Boyd has no social skills. I wonder where he got that from?_

_3\. Erica is a mated female, obviously, she’s the least threatening choice for a first introduction._

_4\. I am willing to get this notarized._

To which Derek answered by taking his pen and writing in horrible chicken-scratch:

_I’m the alpha._

He looked to enjoy the screwed up contortion in Stiles’ face a little too much and his eyes had lit up red with a smirk. Personally, Stiles had yet to decide if Derek’s argument made him want to punch him in the nads or climb over the kitchen table and force his tongue down Derek’s throat.

He’s still not sure.

He had talked the meeting over with Gaby; Derek had too. Although, Stiles isn’t certain how much talking actually happens in a room of just Gaby and Derek. She seemed nervous at the time, nodding, eyes shifting over the room. While Derek most likely tried to push on her the importance of her joining a pack, if temporarily; Stiles made it very plain to her that meeting any of them was her choice. It’s a good idea, but not something she has to do.

She agreed in the end.

Whatever she smells like, it has Boyd noticeably on edge and for Boyd, that’s a big thing. His thousand-yard stare is more vacant than Derek’s. As soon as he caught it on the air he went rigid. The not talking thing is starting to wear on Stiles. How long are they supposed to stand here waiting for something to happen?

Stiles' mouth opens, but Derek catches his gaze and shakes his head, and godammit fine. His lips compress into a pout. The sun sinks out of view.

Gaby leans into Stiles finally, “I can’t,” she mutters, shaking.

“That’s ok, dude,” Stiles says instantly, “Let’s go in, ok?” She folds into his side, and Stiles corals an arm around her shoulders as they turn back to the house.

An angry growl cuts the air. Stiles locks up and Gaby whimpers, tucking tighter into him and whatever happened when they moved toward the house, there’s heat at his back, wolf heat. Alarm coats his family, but they don’t move toward him. When he chances a look over his shoulder Boyd’s there, but it’s Derek, a wall of furious alpha, that stands between his cousin and Stiles and a beta-shifted Boyd.

One roar from Derek and Boyd shrinks, the wolf receding a second later and he’s human again.

“Go,” Derek snarls. It takes a minute to realize he’s talking to Stiles.

 

The next couple of encounters are a little smoother. Boyd doesn’t actually make it into the house before Gaby needs a break, but there’s no possessive growling, no fast movements. They start eating dinner on the lawn and Stiles decides fairy lights in the tree to make the space more welcoming. It’s balls out hot when he finally gets around to breaking out the ladder and setting about his task. It takes minutes for his white t-shirt to start clinging to him, heavy and slimy with sweat. And Lord, the mosquitoes. He loudly smacks his calf, swearing, one arm still stuck on the branch he’s been trying to decorate.

He looks up to find Derek staring at him. He had come over early to spend time with Gaby before dinner. She wanted to show him the Colour Me Calm coloring books John had bought her for her nerves. Which, were pretty soothing Stiles had to admit after dubiously examining the box when it had arrived. She and Derek were sitting in the grass under the leaning tree’s shade, working on some of the pages.

Staring is Derek’s thing. That doesn’t make it any more comfortable for the stare-y. Arousing as hell? Yeah, sure, but uncomfortable given that Stiles has a job to do – they would eat a lovely dinner under pretty lights if it killed him. And it’s not like he knows what to do with that returning look of want. He doesn’t exactly have a ton of experience being wanted that way. Not to mention the monumentally bad timing. Something similar must float through Derek’s mind because the part in his lips seals and his eyes drop away.

Stiles went back to madly stringing lights, radiating frustration. Fuck Peter Hale. Seriously. It is certainly not the greatest of his transgressions, but being in such close quarters with such a gentle, perfect man that was even remotely interested in him and not being able to do a thing about it was fucking torture. Sex was one thing (a great thing!) but not the only thing. Stiles can’t let himself display any sort of affection, not right now, and it’s killing him.

He wants dates. And laughing. And stories. And kissing. And eventual eloping and moving to the country to raise prize-winning sheep or something. Technically they already live in the country, but that is not the point! He didn’t think he would ever be ok enough to want to be with anyone besides Scott and Lydia. Now it’s a real possibility and the only person he wants to try with is the one person he can’t have. Typical.

Not that he won’t wait. He waited for Lydia for nine years before realizing they were better friends than anything else, and her friendship meant more to him than thoughtlessly pursuing her. He will totally wait for years, longer than normal years, like, Pluto years, for Derek – the acknowledgment of that feeling is exciting and terrifying and makes belly all wobbly.

 

The sun is set enough to take pride in his work. The lights twinkle intermittently like a thousand lightning bugs peppering the old tree. He thought he’d take at least one moment to admire it before Boyd arrives and dinner starts. Hot wind rustles through the garden and cools his scalp, hair still damp from the shower.

“Looks nice.”

“FUCK!” Stiles flinches at Derek’s appearance beside him, “Get a _narrator._ ”

Derek’s brow slants at him. “Your grandmother says she wants your help.”

Stiles nods. “All over it.”

“What does st-ein-iyak mean?” Derek asks after a moment.

Stiles chuckles, “I’m not sure I should tell you.”

“Why.”

He shrugs, “It, uh,” trying not to laugh becomes an intense internal struggle, because the concern on Derek’s face is too much, “szczeniak means ‘puppy’ in Polish.”

Derek blinks but doesn’t seem offended. He asks, “What is via-ka doopa?”

And Stiles fucking dies. He throws his head back, howling with laughter. Between Derek’s butchered accent and his grandmother trolling he can’t control himself. Derek frowns while he waits for Stiles to compose himself. Wiping tears from his eyes, Stiles tells him, “It means,” he snorts another laugh – he just cannot with this – “It means ‘great ass’.”

Derek is very silent and very red.

 

Derek becomes more of a regular fixture in the house and soon Boyd is there all the time too. His adjustment to her takes time and a mountain of patience, but Gaby and Boyd start trading a few words over dinner instead of guarded looks after few days.

Gumma complains about having so many hungry wolves in her house every night but takes Stiles off several shifts at Bazaar so that he can stay home and help her cook. Once it becomes clear that these pack dinners have turned into a routine, Derek starts bringing over groceries every so often.

“What I’m supposed to do with all this?” grumbles Gumma as he and Boyd duck in and out of the house ferrying in bags vegetables, and bread and expensive meat, “You boys don’t like food I buy, you eat somewhere else. I don’t need charity,” at that last, she slaps Boyd’s ass as he passes her and he barks a laugh.

As they’re sorting and shoving things into the cabinets, Stiles gasps when Derek appears behind him, fingers grazing his lower back. “Text me tomorrow’s ingredients,” he whispers, leaning in closer than is dually not necessary and absolutely necessary, yes please, mhmm.

“I already sent it,” Stiles tells him, pretending to be unaffected. He can totally handle hotwolf all in his business. Totally handling it like a pro. Boyd’s eye roll, however, he could do without.

“It’s in Polish,” Derek says, brandishing his phone. His dark hair is tousled, relaxed, because of course someone of as freakishly attractive as Derek Hale not only gets the whole dark and brooding lonely prince thing but also just sort of wakes up with the kind of bedhead it takes Stiles an hour to make work. It's aggravating and also he wants to put his face in that hair and breathe.

“So is the recipe.” Which earns Stiles a look, “I just want you to appreciate how difficult it was to A: learn to read and write Polish and Two: get to the first day of school and come to the crippling realization that all of your judgmental, sticky-fingered classmates have been learning a completely different language with their parents prior to that moment, and while you speak English you spell your name in fairy scribble no one understands.” “You’re childhood should be an HBO mini-series.”

“I don’t appreciate your sass-mouth.”

“I don’t appreciate shopping lists in Polish.”

Stiles closes the cabinet, angles himself a little deeper into Derek’s side and whispers, “You may have to overcome your technological phobia and let Boyd explain Google Translate to you.” Before Derek can retort Stiles winks and ducks away feeling like he’s a giddy fifteen-year-old.

 

After a while, Gaby agrees to meet Erica.

Again, Stiles had argued, despite Erica’s penchant for throwing him into things, that she should have been the first one introduced. Biologically speaking, she is the safest choice. But the explanation he eventually got was that Boyd is Derek’s second blah, blah, wolf hierarchy, growly, pout, blah. It isn’t the instant friendship Stiles had anticipated, but Gaby is more confident walking into this one.

She stands straight, holds eye contact, makes her way around the house without John or Stiles. And Derek is so proud it’s a little nauseating. He might not get all giggly and excited, but he’s not frowning – like at all – and may as well be jumping up on people and slobbering.

During Erica’s introduction dinner, Derek laughs. Stiles has no idea what made the sound come out of him, something Erica said no doubt, and he looks just as surprised at the noise as everyone around him is to hear it. Holy shit. It may or may not be the cutest fucking thing Stiles has ever witnessed and he is at a literal loss. Derek’s happy. When the fuck did that become a thing that could happen in this version of reality?

There’s no reason he shouldn’t be right now; his cousin is adapting to his pack, she’s healthy and less skittish and all of them, adoptive humans included, are about to sit down to a hearty meal. Just as Stiles is marveling at the change, a stark thought hits him. This is probably the closest Derek’s come to a 

functional family since that crazy bitch burned his whole life to cinders. Maybe he used to be this happy all the time. All families have problems, but Stiles’ brain paints a Norman Rockwell version of what he assumes dinners at the Hale House were like.

Lots of little kids running around, aunts and uncles and grandparents, enough food to feed an army, Talia showering her children with kisses and hugs even though they were too old and half-heartedly fighting her. John always spoke with admiration when he talked about Talia. He’d say she was a good alpha, but a better person and she loved the hell out of her babies.

And then the idyllic image goes up in smoke and screams.

Stiles' throat closes up painfully.

 

He remembers he left the salt and pepper grinders by the stove. While he’s up to get them, Gumma calls after him to check the rolls. He put them in late, it’s his fault, he is aware, thank you Gramma.

Derek jumps up to help him.

“Weirdly enough I don’t need your, frankly, superfluous musculature for this,” Stiles says fishing the grinders off the counter. Derek catches his free hand and pulls him around. He twines their fingers and then signals for silence. Because wolves. Wolves everywhere.

Stiles conveys his confusion and delight the best he can with a scrunched smile. Initiating touching? That's new. His face is still drawn, reserved, and he's watching their hands, loosely slatted together like he's unsure if he's doing it right. Stiles gives his palm an experimental and, hopefully, encouraging squeeze. When he meets Stiles' eye he's flustered. He looks like he's considering bolting, aborting this whole impulse indulgence thing.

It does make one wonder exactly what convinced him to follow Stiles in here in the first place. Stiles decides it must be the aforementioned happiness he's trying so hard to hide like he thinks he doesn't deserve to rest, to let the light feeling in, but so desperately needs to.

Derek taps his own chest after a few seconds of deliberating, question in his eyes. Stiles grins when he understands, rosebuds sprouting on his cheeks. Derek reels him closer by his hand and sheepishly nuzzles the crook of Stiles' neck. Stiles' eyes lower, back arching, placidly reveling in the closeness as Derek scents him. This time he can plainly see the reassurance it sets in Derek’s shoulders. Maybe the first time was just awkward because it was the first time. Like popping the scenting cherry on someone new. This puts Stiles at ease too.

His ADD makes him tactile in a way other people aren’t. Scott didn’t really understand it until he was bitten. After the bite, he was touching and sniffing everything, especially his mom. All of sudden he wasn’t too grown up for hugs or hair petting. But Derek was born to this, to needing to be touched to find comfort. It’s something Stiles didn’t know he needed so desperately and he wants to run his hands all over Derek, rub his face on his neck, his chest, in his hair.

He might not be bold enough to try it to that extent yet – certainly not with a dining room full of wolves, gramma and his dad on the other side of the kitchen door – but he does shut his eyes and fold

around Derek, tucks in against him like a sparrow tucks its wing. His thumb absently paces back and forth over Derek’s index finger where their hands are clasped.

Maybe this is cheating the whole waiting thing a little. Sue him. Seeing Derek so content and so bold is a bit more than he can withstand.

He stands in the serenity of that quiet, trusting moment until he feels the unmistakable slip-stick of lips, above his clavicle. Just one feathery kiss. Derek hesitates after that, maybe waiting for Stiles to shove him off, make him stop, but that's a long wait for a train don't come. Stiles leans into him a little closer, flushed, chewing the inside of his cheek and then feels lips kneading, kissing over the same spot, trailing languidly up his neck. Derek lets go of his hand to hold him still, hold him more firmly by his hips.

Light alternating kisses and inhales and breath and wet, bothered skin.

Stiles needs to breathe, but if he opens his mouth he knows he’ll moan. The need to cry out smolders on his tongue, makes his mouth a forge. This is not fair. Derek is a fucking troll. He keeps it all PG; no kissing, barely any touching and now all of a sudden in the company of several sets of hypersensitive ears, he pulls this shi – teeth skim along his jaw and a shaking gasp escapes Stiles before he can catch himself.

Derek pops up, mouth and cheeks red, trying not to laugh and shush Stiles at the same time. It’s brightest Stiles has ever seen him and he was part of it. He forgets to be fake mad and, grinning back like an idiot, claps a hand over Derek’s mouth. Derek snorts into his palm, shoulders bouncing. Stiles cups the back of his neck and mouths ‘shut up!’.

Once Derek gets going apparently getting him to stop is the real trick. But Stiles doesn’t want him to, not ever. He peels his palm from Derek’s mouth, because, even though they’re waiting until things are more stable, Stiles really needs to kiss him, just once to show him he’s ready to wait as long as it takes. Longer. He fixes both hands under Derek’s jaw and leans in – but let’s be real. This is the universe in which Stiles is Stiles and nothing works out the way he hopes.

He feels hot, sweet breath on his lips and Derek’s nose brushes against his as the oven timer blares to life. The sudden noise separates them immediately and in the next moment, Gumma is bustling in, shooing Stiles out of the way. They quickly dart back into the dining room; Stiles, covered in the red splotches of sin and Derek concentrating on his plate like it’s a standardized test.

Gaby stares openly at Stiles through most of the meal, head cocked to one side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR!
> 
> A little hard-pressed to even remember what happens in this chapter because even though I've read it a million times, work short-circuited my brain. Customer service is a bitch and people are dumb. 
> 
> Ugh.
> 
> Man, is it hot in here? Am I yeLLING I FEEL LIKE I'M YELLING. Little bit of smooches and tropey trope shit. Lemme know if whatchaa think!


	14. Monster

Gaby crawls onto the couch with him that night having fallen into the True Shift. Her whining wakes him up enough to ask, “Wassa matter?” She climbs on top of him like one of those huge dogs that thinks it’s a cat and buries her head in the couch’s backing. Stiles, too tired to investigate further, just wraps his arms around her. He snuffles in her silver fur.  

 _Tap._  

Gaby’s whines louder, head shooting up, ears back and afraid.  

“It’s jus’ the tree or someth’n,” he mutters.  

 _Tap_ _tap_ _tap._  

Gaby paws at him until he pulls his covers over her completely.  

“You could prolly tear an elephant in half you big scaredy wolf.” 

 _Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap_ _._  

They both leap off the couch, fear piercing Stiles’ half-sleep. What the fuck. What the actual fuck. The sound started further off, like twigs hitting a bedroom window, but that fucking sound, that was on the windows directly behind the couch. Stiles blindly gropes for Gaby’s ruff, finds it, and she cowers against his legs.  

“DAD!” Stiles yells, and lights flick on at the top of the stairs. John is crashing down the steps. Stiles’ eyes adjust enough to catch a face hovering in the darkness beyond the panes, retreating; a face that's not at all human.  

Stiles _screams._  

 

Derek, Erica and Boyd are at the house within the hour. Stiles is on the floor with Gaby, absently petting, staring at nothing. She hasn’t changed back. Stiles has never wished to be a wolf as badly as he does right now. He wants to shift too, become something big and mean and scary. A thing other monsters don’t fuck with.  

All he can do is sit and breathe. He closes his eyes, counts.  

 

Derek paces in tight lines waiting for the Sherriff to break the ash circle. There are four heartbeats in the house, four mingled scents; but he's only listening to, only scenting one. The wolf throws itself against his bones, tearing for freedom. Hearing and smelling aren't enough. He needs to be in that house, needs to break down the walls separating them. There's no coherent thoughts rattling around in him, it's been snuffed out by instinct.  

The wolf hasn't threatened to consume him like this since he was a child before he had control, had an anchor. It howls at him to do _something,_ stop standing and act.  

He's making his betas nervous. They're shifting from foot to foot, anxious to help, but unsure of what to do. What they don't understand is that they can't help him. He needs Stiles, needs him safe, under him, shielded from this latest in an unending flood of danger.  

John appears on the porch and jogs out to meet them. He kicks a hole in the barrier and Derek is through it.  

“What happened?” he demands, chest and eyes burning as the wolf twists inside him. That smell – he doesn’t let it stop him, but there’s no doubt, it’s the same one from before, the one Isaac picked up on outside one of the Stilinskis’ windows; the one that stinks like something dead.  

“We don’t know,” John says. He’s in his pajamas and has his gun harness strapped across his shoulders, “Something got through the ash line. Got close enough to house to see.”  

Derek bursts into the house and goes to Stiles where he’s sat on the floor, Gaby’s head in his lap. He kneels down in front of them, one hand on the top of Gaby’s head, the other cupping Stiles cheek. Stiles’ big, whiskey eyes flicker open. He stinks of fear and the wolf presses the surface, tugs on Derek's insides, determined to hunt down the thing that crossed his territory, crossed his... his....  

“Stiles,” he says firmly, shaking him out of the stupor he’s fallen into. Stiles blinks at him like he doesn’t recognize him at all. Derek turns to his pack, “Find the scent, make sure it’s gone!” he shouts. Boyd takes Erica’s hand, gives a steady nod and they run back out into the night. Gaby whimpers under his hand, turns glassy eyes on him, “It’s ok,” he mutters, stroking her head. But it's not ok. He knows she can tell from the strain in his voice.  

This is just another chaotic force that's out of his control. Another random occurrence he's failing to protect them from.  

“Stiles,” he says again, softer, “baby, look at me.” John doesn't like the endearment. The air around him goes greenish with discomfort, but he doesn't speak it out. He won't make this night more stressful than it already is for the sake of his son. Derek won't either. He needs to calm down. The wolf wants to wrap around Stiles and snarl at anything that comes close, it wants to kill the thing that scared him, it wants to challenge John Stilinski to mark his claim.  

“I’m fine,” Stiles says hollowly.  

“What happened?”  

“It… looked like a deer.”  

“Do you want some water?”  

“Yeah.”  

“I got it,” John says and dutifully makes for the kitchen.  

Derek takes both of his hands. They’re ice cold. It’s easy to forget how close to the surface Stiles’ trauma waits. He's bright and quick and brave, but none of those things truly extinguish what's been done to him. Derek rubs heat into his hands. This isn’t like last time. Last time Stiles was completely, horrifyingly, unresponsive. This time he’s just a little shook up, at least, Derek hopes that's all it is.  

“Will your medicine help?” he asks.  

“I won’t be able to sleep,” Stiles shakes his head and Derek breathes a sigh of relief to see him move finally. “I’m, it’s ok,” he rubs his eyes, “just scared me, I’m fine, just gimme a minute.”  

Derek nods. He pets Gaby and she rolls over his feet. He should have been out here watching the house, not tearing around the woods fruitlessly with Peter's betas. He knew there was something else skirting the Stilinskis. It passed through the ash, came right up to the windows. What if it had broken them, rained glass down on Stiles and Gaby, tried to drag them away? Flames leap in his belly, climb into his throat.  

He needs to roar, to clear the land, to mark his territory.  

"Der," Stiles says and long fingers slide over his arm, pulling him from himself. Stiles taps his chest.  

Derek breathes. On some level Stiles' understands his need to scent. Knows what it means to him. He holds Stiles by his shoulders and sucks in that electric, wild smell that lingers under the film of sweat making his skin slick. His throat is warm, soft, his pulse quickening. Derek wants to drown in this scent, cover himself in it. It's barely human and so far from wolf, from animal, but he _wants_ it.  

The older members of his family had disliked people like Stiles. They would talk about how ugly they were, how foul they stank. One of his aunts told him Sparks smelled like an electrical fire; chemical, unnatural. That's not how Stiles smells, not at all. He's chaotic, wind whipping ahead of a storm, bending trees and grass; it’s a heady, male scent and so right it practically sings to him.  

Stiles' arms circle his neck, and Derek scoops up around his back, pulls him close. They're ok. Gaby's ok, Stiles, John, Gumma, they're all still here. He won't leave again. It's all too much. A fright like this, some random creature passing through town, wandering by the house, it shouldn't have set him off.  

But it was all of it, all of the bedlam compounding.  

He's alpha, he has to hold it all together, protect them all; but he's alpha by mistake. Laura was supposed to be alpha, Peter, and Derek her betas. It's all so wrong now and he doesn't know what to do; every choice he makes ends up a mistake.  

He buries his face in Stiles' neck; tries to disappear. Lips dab over his ear, his neck and Stiles nuzzles against him. Gaby shoves her head between them, sniffing and licking until settling on Stiles' chest.  

Altogether, they breathe.  

 

Boyd and Erica return with nothing.  

They say the scent goes dead somewhere in the woods headed away from town. The Hale pack sleeps over that night. Rather than trying to squeeze all of them onto the couch, the living room floor becomes a pile of pillows and blankets and evenly breathing bodies. Gaby's yellow eyes go over the mess of cushions before she decides to follow John back up to his bedroom. He gives her a pat on the head as they ascend the stairs.  

Derek makes Stiles take the couch. Stiles is too tired to argue. He lays back and counts the pack's collective breath. Sleep won’t come, he knows it won't.  

 

He's drained by morning. Dead on his feet as he shuffles around the kitchen to make tea. He must have slipped under for an hour or two around dawn because he doesn't remember the wolves leaving. He has a feeling they're still around, none of them looked inclined to wander too far from the house after last night. They file back in after their patrol later that morning for breakfast.  

Gaby is noticeably absent, still asleep upstairs, but none of them mention it.  

"The creature's scent vanishes about two miles east of here," Derek says from where he's leaning on the dining room wall. The rest of the pack convenes around the small battered table, laggardly sipping coffee and pushing food around their plates.  

Stiles' dad comes forward on his elbows, "How's that possible?" 

"We don't know," Erica says angrily. Her eyes flare amber when she speaks. She wants to hurt something and channels her frustration on tearing her napkin into little pieces.  

"What it smells like?" Asks Gumma, blowing cigar smoke through her nostrils.  

"Death," is Boyd's answer, the other two nod in agreement.  

"What was it _feeling_?" She asks. 

Derek shakes his head, "Nothing." 

That piques Gumma's interest, "Nothing? Or there were no chemo-signals?" 

"It wasn't feeling anything," Derek clarifies.  

"Being chased by a pack, you'd think it'd at least be scared," puts in Boyd.  

"What did it look like, Stiles?" She asks. She has something and they all feel it. Five sets of eyes fall on Stiles. He blinks too hard and rubs the tick out of his eyes. 

"Like a deer, sort of," he tries to recall, tries to drag up that hideous face from the place where he's buried it.  "Like a deer skull. But it was standing upright, on two legs like a human. And – it had some fur, I think. On its shoulders and chest." 

Gumma nods urges him on. He can't tell what his imagination is supplementing and what he actually saw, "It looked sort of emaciated. Where it had skin, it was shriveled, too tight." 

"What is it?" Erica asks impatiently.  

“Stiles,” the old woman says, “get the book.”  

She means the grimoire; a book he’s not allowed to handle normally. Her instruction put him on a sharper edge. She pulls the chain around her neck up and over her head. The key hanging from it sways delicately. He glances at Derek who’s certainly heard the uptick in his heart, can smell the sour tang of his nerves.  Stiles moves to retrieve the key from his grandmother and pads to her office once he has it.  

The grimoire is kept in a mountain ash box. It’s not intricate or gilded; just a plain wooden box adorned with a heavy brass lock on its front. The lock clicks and the lid pops up. The book is leather bound, but it’s not cowhide or sheepskin. It’s human; skin willingly given by his many times great grandmother, one of the most powerful Sparks to ever live, many of the entries are written in her own hand, inked in her own blood. He can feel her energy billowing off the cover like holding his hand too close to a live wire.  

He takes a breath before tucking it under his arm. He can feel her and knows that wherever her spirit resides now that Róża Stilinski can feel him. The grimoire is a living, changing thing and it takes an extremely disciplined Spark to wield it without being consumed by it.  It’s his mixed brain chemistry that keeps him from being able to take up this mantle when Gumma passes on. No amount of medicine will ever make him what his lineage demands he become. He doesn’t know who will inherit the book when the time comes, there aren’t many Stilinskis left.  

Stiles sets the grimoire on the table before his grandmother. The wolves must sense something because they all shrink wearily away from it.  

Gumma undoes the clasp and the book flutters open under his fingers. Quickly Stiles get back to his seat at the far end of the table. He knows Derek’s watching him, can feel the hard line in his eyes and the worry underlying it. For a few minutes, they sit in silence as Gumma flips delicately through the tome.  

“You describe a wendigo,” she says on an exhale of smoke. 

“Wendigoes are real?” asks Erica in disbelief.  

Boyd takes her hand and says softly, “Baby, we’re werewolves.”  

Her mouth opens like she’s going to argue the point and then she shrugs and replies, “Fair enough.”  

“Wendigo went extinct during the last Underland War,” corrects Gumma, turning another page, “They have not been seen in a hundred years.” 

“Maybe not all of them died,” suggests John.  

Gumma shakes her head, “If they exist still, they would not be so far south. And Wendigo cannot cross mountain ash line.” She shakes her head, sighs, “Dziecko, you must think hard. What else did you see?”  

Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip. He hadn’t seen anything! It had been dark; he’d only seen shadows. He rubs his eyes. Fuck, there had to be something. He’s the only one that got a look at the creature, the only one that can put them on the right path. He’d been so fucking scared, he hadn’t been able to concentrate, most of Adderall had burned off. The silence and the staring of those around the table aren’t helping. He’s just panicking, brain whirring, but it’s just white noise.  

Derek’s hand closes gently on his arm. He’s crouching beside the chair, looking up at Stiles, into him. “It’s – ok. If you don’t remember.” He’s so terrible at trying to be reassuring that he’s somehow really good at it. Stiles wants to kiss him, tell him how good he is, wants to disappear so that it’s just the two of them.  

“Fuck,” Stiles gasps, breaking the moment, eyes shooting up. His mind click, click, catches. “Show me your claws.”  

Derek’s frowning, confused, hesitates and then takes his hand off Stiles and his bones begin to thicken, bristled hair sprouts on his knuckles and hand as razor sharp claws grow out of his fingertips. Stiles grabs the claw and thrusts it toward Gumma, forcing Derek into an uncoordinated shuffle to keep his balance.  

“This, it had claws just like this. If Derek tapped on the window I swear to God it’d make the same noise. Do wendigoes have the same claws as werewolves?”  

Gumma’s eyes light up, a smile on her lips, “They have three prong talons. Did the creature you saw have talons or five fingers?” 

“Fingers! Definitely fingers, but they were longer, and… and hairier, but the claws looked exactly like this.”  

“What the hell kinda devil beast is a wolf/wendigo mashup?” implores Erica, “Is interbreeding even possible?”  

“No,” Derek grunts, taking back his hand, claws retracting.  

“Alpha Hale is right, body can only be inhabited by one spirit at a time,” agrees Gumma, “energy of wolf and wendigo would tear flesh apart.”  

“Then I’m confused,” sighs Boyd.  

“Is impossible in modern times,” says Gumma, her keen eyes going to Derek, “but such a creature has existed before. I think you know the creature I speak of.”  

Derek’s brow crushes together. He shakes his head, “S’not possible.”  

“For the love of Christ, what’s not possible?” demands Erica.   

Gumma says resolutely, "I believe it is very old creature, very ancient. A therion."  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, the therion. Death smelly critter has a name. That, and big group snugs. Oh, and mostly naked Derek. 
> 
> Did a bunch of research trying to pick the right monster, but nothing really felt right, so. There's no point googling therion because its not a thing; Gumma will explain next chapter :D. It's all downhill from here guys. 
> 
> Always taking questions and comments friends, though I know I haven't answered as many lately, something I will amend. My bad guys, I'll be more attentive now that work stuff is calmer. Ask awaayyyyy
> 
> Happy MLK Day bebs!


	15. Therion

Gumma takes her time relighting her cigar while the room vibrates around her. She takes a few grim puffs. The last time Stiles saw that expression was right after his mother had been admitted into the hospital for the last time. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt in order to avoid the severe set of her eyes and mouth.  

"Therion is the first human to bridge the human realm with powers of the natural world, the first to walk in another's skin. But their human flesh is sacrificed to the Goddess in the process." 

"Like the first werewolf?" Erica presses. 

"Therions came to be long before wolves. They are filled with many spirits; the spirits keep them alive, in some cases, for thousands of years. But as they age they become hollow and chaotic."  

"Why would a therion be tapping on your windows?" Asks Boyd, crossing his arms.  

"It wants something," Gumma puts simply, "the only motivation of a therion is to acquire. Acquire spirit, blood, power." 

Derek comes forward until he's standing by Stiles' chair. He hasn't been sleeping. Exhaustion drapes him, makes the hollows under his eyes darker, his skin paler. Derek coughs into the crook of his elbow and asks Gumma, "How do we find out what it wants?" It’s a wet cough, one that gives Stiles pause as he stares up at him.  

"We do not, szczeniak. Therion takes what it wants. It does not reason, it does not feel." 

"How do we kill it?" Boyd tries.  

"The same way you kill sweet little bunny hopping through forest. With claws and teeth. But therion has to be caught first and it cannot be caught. They are too full of spirit energy, can vanish, become ethereal, become scentless, soundless. They straddle the Between, the plain dividing our reality from that of the Door."   

"So what? We just wait for it to come back and, and do what? Steal something?" Snaps Erica. Boyd's hand shifts over her knee and she huffs.  

"This isn't the first time it's come here," Derek says slowly, "What's it waiting for?"  

"Hale kid's got a point, Gum," remarks John, tense all over. Stiles wants to hug him. He's a good man, a lawful man, but he's just a man, like Stiles. In the presence of so many predators, it's hard not to feel fragile. They aren't. They are far from helpless. But Derek being here, looming where he thinks there's danger – he being two hundred pounds of muscle and raw animal instinct – is enough to put fear in both of them. If the wolves are nervous, then frail humans sure as hell should be too.  

"Maybe it waits for something specific," Gumma answers thoughtfully, "The right moon, perhaps."  

"Like a full moon?" Derek asks tightly.  

"All the moon's phases have power. Just because full moon is favorite moon for wolves, does not mean it is for others. For instance, you must notice draining feeling during New Moon, tiredness, submissiveness?"  

"Submissiveness?" Parrots Stiles, a grin splitting his exhausted face when he looks up at Derek. Derek goes red all over. _All over_. His chest lights up first in the valley of his clavicle and the tint rises up his neck to his cheeks to his ears. The frown doesn't budge, though, and he makes a point of ignoring Stiles completely.  

"Stiles," his dad sighs, long-suffering grimace etched into his features.  

Looking as amused as someone like him can, Boyd answers, "Yeah."  

"There are some creatures who grow strong or wise or fertile depending on the moon's position. It is gargantuan energy conductor that affects us all differently. Therion could be waiting for most opportune lunar phase." 

"I still don’t get how it got over the ash line," says Stiles.  

"Therion bloodlines began before the first mountain ash was born; they are not bound by its rules." Maybe that explains why mountain ash doesn’t bother Gaby. If the First Wolf is a great, great ancestor of the modern werewolf, that must be why it doesn’t have an effect on her. If Stilinski wolfbane wasn’t so potent, so loaded up with rare strains, exotic herbs and Spark, Stiles doubts his father’s shells would have slowed her down at all.  

"Is it violent?" Asks Derek and Stiles swats his arm. 

" _Hey_ , you speak when spoken to or I'll put you over my knee."   

Erica may come to Derek's defense when she thinks he's in trouble, but this is not one of those times. She throws her head back and _loses it._ Her cries of laughter gouge a few snickers out of Boyd, who tries to cover it with a terribly unconvincing cough. Derek is two shades from turning into a tomato and furious. He shoots daggers at Stiles and it only makes him laugh harder.  

Gumma clears her throat, "Not always."  

"Son," John says to Derek, leaning back in his chair, "I can't say I'd take offense if you left us all here to die."  

Derek mutters something like 'Thinking about it'.  

"Am I the only one who sees the glaringly obvious solution here?" Stiles inquires of the room, specifically his father. He's met with blank faces and shrugs. "Dad you were chomping at the bit to call up Chris Argent when we first heard about the rogue wolf. Call his ass up again. He's probably got some mystical-hunter-super-weapon that'll blow the thing right back to hell."  

Beside him, Derek locks up, Stiles can feel it in the air between them. His betas' residual laughter is gone when they glance at him.  

"What?" Stiles asks.  

"You know Chris Argent?" Derek asks John carefully.  

"Yeah, old hunting buddy. I mean, hunting game, deer and rabbit mostly. Didn't know about his... other hunts until about three years ago."  

"Have you told him about Gaby?" And it sounds a little too close to a growl. Shit, why can’t Stiles think before he talks? 

John Stilinski shuts him down real quick, though, "Derek, I realize you and the Argents don't see eye-to-eye and whatever ya'll get up to in your personal time is your business. But, where you're stand'n, right now? This is Switzerland, understand? There are no sides in this house. That being said, Chris Argent does not need to know the intimate details of my guests nor do my guests need to know his."  

"They're murderers," Derek snarls, voice dropping to a dark place.  

"You know what, kiddo," John tells him, "I ain't the Argents' biggest fan neither. They've come too close to rot'n in my holding cells too many times and always seem to wriggle outta the reach of the law at the last second. But Chris Argent is a good man. Honest. Known him a lot longer than I known you. And it’s a matter of public record that he testified against his own father in your family's arson case. Both Kate and Gerard woulda served twenty-five to life had they not _mysteriously disappeared_."  

It’s a topic of conversation even Stiles finds himself skirting. He had gotten upset hearing that Derek knew about his run-in with Peter before meeting him, but how mad could he really be? It’s a safe bet everyone in the state knew about the Hale Fire.  

At first, everyone thought it was some sort of freak accident, until Peter came out of his coma, all covered in burns. The doctors at Hollow Downs Memorial said it was some kind of miracle; the fastest recovery ever recorded.  

The Spirit had passed into him, the oldest surviving Hale heir when Talia burned. The only miracle that had taken place in that hospital room was the alpha spirit galloping into Peter and bringing him back from a place he should have been lost too.  

Peter could have hunted the Argents down, ripped out their throats. He didn't. He'd wanted a spectacle. A public flogging whose repercussions and scars would carry into generations of Argents to come. The werewolf who brought the Argents down with nothing but the power of their own human laws. He had seen Kate Argent in the flames, trapped in the basement as his family writhed, screamed, turned to ashes around him.  

And Derek....  

He had made Derek tell the court about him and Kate. How she used him – seduced him - to gain entry to the house, stole keys off his keyring and locked the Hales in what became their mass grave. He was made to stand in front of that courtroom, essentially the entire town, all of sixteen years old, and tell them that Kate Argent had raped him and burned his parents alive.  

Some neighbors took the stand as well, but what put their case over the top was Peter tracking down the poor, dumb sod that had put the idea of how to commit the perfect murder in Kate's head.   

Adrian Harris, the high school chemistry teacher. John said the man was shaking so hard during his testimony they could barely understand his confession. Whatever Peter threatened him with, and knowing him it was likely mutilation and mayhem, it had been enough to coerce Harris into singing like a canary.  

Chris, on the other hand, had testified of his own free will, because someone like Peter could never intimidate someone like Chris. And what would be the point of trying?  

Somewhere along the lines, he must have figured it out. Figured out that his own blood had broken their most sacred code; had killed innocents. Kate got life in prison and the investigation and eventual conviction of her father, Gerard Argent as an accomplice, followed shortly thereafter.  

And then they vanished.  

The final brushstroke in Peter's masterpiece. The Argents were despised by their peers and died helplessly encircled by vengeful wolves in some lonely pocket of forest; their shame complete.  

The Sheriff had known what happened, maybe not the specifics, but had a pretty good guess. The Argents had met human justice, been condemned, but even that was too good for them. Public outcry that they serve their time demanded he look into the disappearance and he did, but not too hard. There had been children in that basement; wolf or human, there is no reason a child should die like that; too small to understand why, why the pain? Why couldn't mommy and daddy save them?  

So fuck the Argents. He had said one night a few years after the trial that he hoped Peter did his worst and never spoke of it again until now.  

Derek bites down whatever he intended to say next. His hatred of Chris Argent is misplaced, and maybe he knows it, but amidst the whirlwind of shit he's standing in Stiles' dad must know enough to excuse outbursts like this. Derek so badly needs a villain to hate. That person should be, and for the most part is, Peter. But Peter until recently had been someone he trusted, trusted since he was little; is part of his ever-dwindling family.  

"Chris is a good call, Stiles," his dad says with a soft smile, "He might be a little put off by the last hunt I sent him on being fruitless."  

"You didn't tell him anything?" Stiles asks, "Has he been out there this whole time?"  

John laughs, "No, no, I called him a few days after we found Gaby. He said the trail was cold after the first time he caught sight of her. I didn't feel the need to correct him. But this therion, I gotta feel'n if we know what it is, there's a good chance Chris Argent knows how to put it down."  

 

Derek has been shadowing him since he woke up, but Stiles is too tired to try arguing that he doesn’t need a bodyguard. Not that he’d win; Derek’s too hard headed, and honestly, it _is_ a little comforting. They wash dishes together while John tries to get ahold of Chris.  

Stiles hands him a plate to dry and asks, “You know what a therion is?”  

Derek meets his eye for a moment, and goes back to his task, “Yeah.” His throat sounds scratchy and makes to clear his throat, but air exits him in a sudden cough.  

“How?”  

For someone who has very little experience at being forthcoming, Stiles can plainly see him try his best to answer. It takes a few minutes of thinking before, “We had fairytales for the little kids.” By ‘we’, he means his family. He wants so badly to have a family again that he can’t bring himself to use the word like he thinks he’ll jinx his chances at one. “The wolf is always the hero.”  

“Your version of Little Riding Hood must be fucked,” chuckles Stiles.  

“Maybe to you,” Derek replies, ducking his head and smiling faintly, “There was one about the therion. It was the mother of the First Wolf. A wolf fell in love with a human and wanted to be a human too. It went to the therion and it turned the wolf into a human by biting it on the Full Moon and the wolf stayed human until the New Moon when it had to become a wolf again. The human it loved was scared by the change and ran. The wolf was alone after that and howled at the moonless sky all night. The sound brought the therion to the wolf and the therion told it that its bite would have the opposite effect. If the First Wolf bit a human, the human would be able to take wolf form at will, but the change would be forced during the Full Moon. 

“The First Wolf offered the bite to its human mate and the human loved the wolf so much that they agreed. The two roamed the woods together forever after that offering the bite to the sick and dying, anyone who needed it.”  

“Is that why the bite has to be consensual? Why you don’t just turn humans at random?”  

Derek nods, “The bite is a gift.” 

Stiles needs to get Scott to sit down with Derek at some point, like, really sit down. Even if Derek sucks at talking, Stiles is sure he could help Scott, prove to him what he's already beginning to come to terms with: that being a wolf is evil, it’s just different.  

“Why did you bite your pack?” Stiles asks.  

He doesn’t think Derek will answer, but he does, “Boyd was in a car accident. He got hit by a drunk driver. It paralyzed him.” He sets his plate in the drying rack and takes the next one from Stiles, “I turned him and he told me that he’d been out getting his fiancé’s seizure medicine. He asked me to offer her the bite to make the seizures stop. And Isaac… his dad beat him.”  

“You saved them,” Stiles tells him because he’s sure no one has.  

“That’s what the bite is for,” he says, brushing off the praise. He’s not getting it. Stiles wipes the foam off his hands and draws a hooked finger under Derek’s chin. He searches Derek’s eyes, trying his best to impart the importance of his words.  

“You’re a good person.”  

Derek’s mouth opens slightly. He’s constantly pushing down all of his anger and his fear, but he’s never diluting that kind of toxin with the good he’s done. And there’s a lot, more than enough to offset these terrible things he’s holding on to. Stiles will force him to acknowledge the positive things in his life if he has to.  

“You’re good,” Stiles says firmly.  

“…Stiles,” comes out of him and Derek leans down and Stiles' skin tingles with goose pimples, his face going steamy, but before Derek gets very far, his head snaps up. He goes back to the dishes mumbling, “Your dad.”  

John trots into the kitchen a moment later, stowing his phone in his back pocket, “Go get cleaned up, kid. We’re meeting Chris in twenty.”  

 

Apparently Chris Argent doesn’t have a day job. Since the Stilinski house has sort of becoming the Den Mark II, despite his father’s words, they agree to meet him at an even more neutral location. Stiles had voted for McDonald's, because all day breakfast, but was swiftly overruled by literally everyone.  

Derek’s argument was, “You just ate.”  

To which Stiles obviously answered, “We’ve had one, yes, but what about _second_ breakfast?”  

They settle on You Java Bean Kidding Me, the coffee shop downtown. It’s always filled with tourists in the mornings, all of them trying to negotiate terms with aggressive hangovers before hitting the beach again. Gumma, Boyd, and Erica stay home with Gaby, safely behind the ash line. Well, mostly safe. As safe as one can be when there’s a vaporous deer zombie on the prowl.  

There's no reason Derek needs to accompany them. Stiles is hyper-aware of that fact. His dad doesn't argue Derek's coming, though they all know putting him in the same room as an Argent is a bad idea. And Stiles _tries_. He tries to get Derek to stay, except Derek is just as much of a stubborn ass as Stiles is. He insists on going.  

Frustrated with the non-committal, circular argument that has ultimately forestalled the whole meeting, Stiles wheels on Derek with a clipped, " _Why_?" 

Derek doesn't words. Stiles knows this, but it's still incredibly irritating. He gets a vacant stare and groans. Derek crosses the room before Stiles can tell him to stay again. Everything about Derek is human on the outside and sometimes he's finding it's easier to, not necessarily forget the wolf, but become so comfortable with it he forgets what it's capable of.  

Speed, for instance.  

One moment Derek is across the kitchen leaning petulantly on the counter and the next he directly in front of Stiles, hands closed on his hips and drawing them flush. Stiles makes an unattractive squawk of alarm and drops his phone. It slides over the tiles before thudding against a table leg.  

Very close. Very close, very fast. No time to process the heat, the flock of solid muscle and weight of hands keeping him still, the forehead pressing to his. One palm slides around to the small of his back and compresses, firmly sealing them together.   

And that is his answer.  

 

“Where are your shoes.” Derek asks around a cough as they climb out of John’s squad car.  

“I don’t understand the question,” replies Stiles, frowning.  

“Derek, I been tryna get shoes on that boy since he was two,” sighs John, “All I can say is know when you’re beaten.”  

Stiles points at his dad over the top of the car gives a thumbs up and winks. When his hand drops back to his side as they walk toward the coffee shop, Derek’s fingers go around his wrist. His heart double beats.  

“Stay behind me,” Derek mutters and then lets him go.  

Stiles waits for his dad to get ahead of them a bit before whispering, “If Chris is gonna mess anyone up it’s you. How about you stand behind _me_ , tough guy.”  

“He’s not alone,” Derek tells him, eyes fixed on the neon-lined windows, “You’re a Spark. You fraternize with wolves. Don’t mouth off.”  

“Fraternize… that word sounds so medical; how do you feel about ‘runs wi-,” 

“ _Stiles.”_  

“Dude, the Argents make you nervous, I get it, I do. I don’t like them either, but I really doubt they’re gonna pick a fight with you in a public place. We’re here to ask for their help. The worst that’ll happen is they say no. And I don’t mouth off, I encourage others to acknowledge and rise to the level of their own bullshit.”  

Derek’s expressions are beginning to mirror his father’s a tad. Annoyance is the dominant emotion, but just under it, peaking through the seams is a layer of patience. Derek’s impossible eyes rest on him, trying to impress on him without speaking the gravity of the situation, at least the gravity he’s feeling. And joking aside, it’s clear he’s uncomfortable. This is probably the first time he’s crossed an Argent’s path since the trial; since he had to admit to being the one that let Kate Argent in.  

Stiles’ hand grazes over Derek’s chest. 

He says quietly, “Telling you not to worry is pointless, so, I’ll promise to behave only if you promise it’ll make you feel better.”  

Derek nods.  

“I can totally hold your hand too, and I’ve got a few sweet nothings in the chamber just wait’n to be loaded. I’m thinking, something like ‘I get lost gazing into the depths of your chest hair’-,”  

Derek rolls his eyes and stalks toward the shop – dragging Stiles by the hand.  

 

So this is awkward.   

And there are so many reasons it should be. But the sour cloud of awkward settled over the table is not because Derek is all grumpy and brooding, or because Chris’s scary-as-the-fires-of-hell wife, Victoria, is sipping a cappuccino like it’s the blood of lambs, or even because Stiles’ dad is so immersed in polite conversation with Chris that both of them seem to be willfully sidestepping the bright and blinding as the sun point of contention seated across from Stiles.  

Ally.  

Allison Argent. Cue overdramatic music and flickering lights. There are two versions of Allison Stiles knows. The first is high school Allison; _normal_ teenager that stays in to study and goes to school-sponsored events. And the version now situated before him buffing her nails.  

Hunter Allison. Short hair – which looks great, he admits bitterly to himself – dark clothes, most- likely concealing several sets of knives and other wicked killing devices and an undying hatred of wolves. She occasionally shoots Derek a look, because without having to be told, she picked him out for what he is immediately. They don’t exactly glare at each other. It’s more like two big predators sizing each other up, deciding how best to rip each other limb from limb when this whole meeting inevitably goes straight to hell.  

“Ally,” Stiles says unable to sit in the deafening silence a moment longer, “how was France?”  

He feels her mother’s gaze on him, silently appraising and ignores it. He can be pleasant. He can definitely sustain at least moderately loose conversation with these people.  

Sure, Allison destroyed Scott. Yanked out his still beating heart with her bare hands and dashed it out in the dirt; dumped him as soon as she found out what really happened to Auntie Kate and Granddaddy Argent, found out that Scott's sire was the one that killed them and disappeared to Europe without a word. His first instinct upon seeing her is to lay into her, stick up for his best friend, because the wolf doesn’t change people, _Allison_ , Scott is still the same. Still _good_.   

Not even Peter could corrupt someone as obscenely good and loyal as Scott McCall.  

He denied Peter as his alpha, not just because Peter is a fucking sociopath, but because he knew how Allison’s family felt about the Hales. Knew it was bad enough he’s a wolf – and not by choice, Stiles would like to remind her. But no. He won’t. He promised not to say anything -- although that promise now, in hindsight, seems slightly premature – because Derek doesn’t need another heap of crap on his shit sandwich.  

He had only asked Stiles to be civil because he _cares._ And can we just talk about that for a second? In his own closed off weird way, getting all huffy and barking orders translates into ‘I _care_ about you’. Little touches and smiles and whatever that awesome neck thing was in the kitchen are great, but hearing it? Or at least the gruff Derek Hale equivalent?  

That’s some USDA prime grade-A, slow-bone, baby-make’n mojo.  

So Stiles’ tirade can wait. Because he cares too. More than cares. And Allison Argent is not as important as the grumpy ball of anxiety and crippled social skills sitting next to him, thanks very much.  

“Interesting,” Allison says blandly, “Learned a lot.”  

“About wine and cheese?” He knows it’s not wine and cheese, but prays she takes the out.  

She doesn’t. 

“About wolves,” she says, dark eyes going over Derek again, “And people like you.”  

“You didn’t have to go to France for that,” Stiles chuckles nervously, “Gumma woulda told you whatever you wanted to know.”  

“I doubt that,” she tells him matter-of-factly. She turns on Derek and asks, “You’re a Hale, right?” Derek holds her stare and slowly nods. “Were you there when your pack tore apart my grandfather?”  

Well fuck. She certainly doesn't mince words.  

“ _Allison,”_ hisses her mother.  

“That was a long time ago,” Chris adds.  

“I was.”  

 _Please don’t_. Stiles’ eyes close and he rubs them. When they open again Allison’s face is immobile, centered. She doesn’t look angry, but only an idiot would think she really isn’t furious.   

“Did you help kill them?” she asks, too evenly.  

“No,” says Derek, “but I didn’t stop it either.”  

“We didn’t have any remains to perform burial rites over,” she says, “You had no right to take their honor.” 

“They dishonored _themselves_ ,” Derek snaps around a growl, eyes lighting up. Argent hands disappear under the table and Stiles stands up instantly.  

“Derek, let’s go for a walk, big guy,” he says hauling Derek up by his arm. Derek only resists him for a moment, eyes locked with Allison’s and those few seconds turn Stiles’ belly into a pit of squirming eels until finally, Derek stands. He storms from the coffee shop and down the sidewalk. Stiles jogs to keep up with him, catches the back of his shirt and tugs.  

“Hey,” Stiles croons, circling around to his front, “Talk to me.”  

“I’m fine.”  

Stiles nods, “Ok, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Stiles touches his cheek, makes Derek looks at him, “there’s so much happening right now, it’s ok, you’re allowed to get angry too.”  

Derek watches him, wearily, and then the guard falls away and he presses into Stiles’ hand. Derek takes his wrist, inhales into his palm and nods.  

“And you thought I was gonna start a fight; I won’t lie, though, I’ll still go in there and whoop someone’s ass if you want.” Derek’s eyes lower and his offers a small smile. “Except Mrs. Argent probably. I feel like she’ll unhinge her jaw and devour me. Like what even is that haircut? Bad Bitch by Vidal Sassoon?”  

Derek doesn’t laugh, but then, he never does anyway. They stand there for a few minutes of silence while Derek collects himself with his fingers laced his hair.  

Hands in his pockets, Stiles asks, "Were you really there?"  

Derek just looks at him, hard furrow having not yet relaxed. There are some, maybe spark related, powers Stiles taps into from time to time and mostly by accident. It's a difficult thing to define because he can’t always tell if/when he's seeing something in someone else's mind or if his imagination is fabricating its own image. Gumma says that Watching is a skill that has existed in the family blood for a long time. He couldn't get away with shit as a kid. If he was lying she could usually catch glimpses of his real memories no matter how hard he tried not to think about them.  

When there's emotional charge, sometimes other peoples' memories pop into his brain unbidden. He's never been able to force it; without the ability to concentrate, to open his third eye, he only catches snippets people project by accident.  

For a fleeting few seconds, he swears he sees something that did not come from himself. Fire in willowwhacks, dark skies, howling. He can’t tell if he's seeing a burning house, which would make some sense, or a bonfire deep in the forest. It's only a flash, nothing substantial, but it's on Derek's mind.  

"Whatever happened," Stiles says low, "even my dad says whatever the Argents got was justice."  

Derek looks down, gives a nod. Whatever he saw that night, it's hard to believe it gave him any closure. Blood and chaos thrust on those that crossed him gives satisfaction to Peter, but not Derek. No amount of violence can change what's been done to him. In the end, Kate still raped him, still killed everyone dear to him.

As much as Stiles wants Peter dead for Gaby's sake and Scott's and his own, he already knows that he'll still feel the way Derek is feeling now. 

"She begged me to make them stop," Derek says quietly, "and I didn't."  

"She did it to herself," Stiles tells him and Derek gives another shallow nod. Stiles reached out and lays a hand on Derek's side, under his ribs. His t-shirt is tacky with sweat. Derek moves thoughtlessly to press his nose under Stiles' jaw to breathe.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said last time, the therion's made up mostly because I was looking into other stuff and nothing was grabbing me. So, they never look the same because therion's appearance changes depending on what it's absorbed, hence the weird clawed-wendigo deally. And they're mostly all dead. So. Yeah. BUT WHAT DOES IT WAAAAN? Let's pretend I thought this out at all. 
> 
> Once this thing's done I was thinking about writing Derek's version of Little Red Riding Hood. It would be much groz. And maybe also like a more detail version of the story of the very first werewolf with Derek as the wolf and Stiles as his human mate. Who nose. I'm tapping my nose. You can't see it though. 
> 
> I'm sorry duder, I fuckn love it when two fuckers bout to kiss and get interrupted. That's the last time, promise. The next time will be for reals. Many kisses <3
> 
> Hope you enjoy my pretties :)


	16. Branded

Allison and Mrs. Argent are gone by the time they make it back in. Chris and John are standing from the table, shaking hands as they move. Mutual man-crush confirmed.  

John gives them bits and pieces of the short-lived conversation. It boils down to Chris being concerned and insisting on what they already know. A therion should not be taken lightly. It could have been drawn to the area for any number of reasons. Around this time of year, so close to the equinox, with an impending worm moon, there are too many variables to pin down exactly what the thing wants.  

He agrees entirely with what Gumma told them. It’s the kind of creature that can be killed, in theory, but is uncatchable. His only advice is to hang paper dolls from the trees around the house to confuse it, perhaps scare it off. Stiles wasn’t there, but he can hear the dryness of Argent’s voice through his father’s retelling.  

As they make their way back to the parking lot Chris pulls Stiles aside. Derek also stops, hard eyes resting on where Chris' palm is still flat to Stiles' shoulder.  

"A word," Chris says and then meets Derek's stare, "In private."  

"'Kay," Stiles says uncertainly and nods for Derek to go on without him. Derek eventually complies after making it perfectly clear, without words, that Chris should be very, very careful.  

"What?" Stiles sighs. Chris shakes his head until Derek is a tiny dot across the lot.  

"Keep your voice low," Argent says, "The Sheriff doesn't need to hear."  

"Hear what?" Stiles asks at full volume.  

Blowing irritated breath through his nose Argent says, "My great-grandmother encountered a therion before the family immigrated to America." 

"Ok?" 

"She lead a hunt against it after several children in her village went missing. Weapons were useless. It could vanish and reappear." 

"Yeah, Chris, I've heard. It exists between plains, we already know."  

Chris shakes his head, smiles humorlessly, "Mortals, wolves, anything that exists in this physical realm can't kill it because we can't travel to the Between. I think you know what can."  

Stiles' brow shoots up expectantly, "A cat?"  

"No, Stiles, a spark."  

Stiles blinks a few times. "What?" He asks dumbly.  

"John and your grandmother know this. John doesn't have the gift, Gumma's too frail to fight and the therion's already killed one spark in this territory. You're all that's left. I have a daughter, I understand why John didn't say anything. I'm only telling you this because the thing has come to your house a few times that you know of. If it thinks you’re a threat, it'll kill you too and it'll probably kill Derek in the process."  

Chris's observational skills aside for a moment, why in hell didn't Stiles figure that out? He swears at himself internally. Spark energy is a bridge to the place beyond the Door as much as the wolf's ability to shift is. It's a bridge that crosses right through the Between. With a clear line of sight a proficient battle caster could immobilize anything, even a creature able to become ethereal. Which is all well and good except for the fact that Stiles is _not a proficient battle caster_ _._ He's not a proficient anything; he's hardly a good cashier.  

His less than stellar abilities might keep him safe from seeming threatening, but doesn't solve the problem of scary, thousand-year-old-demon-chimera-shifter-thing. 

Out loud, more to himself than to Chris, Stiles asks, "Why did it kill Bohannon at all?"  

"He's a threat." 

Stiles nods blandly. He didn't have time for Chris's two-dimensional thought processes. As he walked back to the car, eyes unfocused and downward, his mind turned over what Gumma had told them. That the therion acquires. It exists to accumulate power – or whatever catches its fancy – like a greedy little kid stealing sweets. Bohannon, selfish character flaws aside, was a force to be reckoned with. He'd once pushed a living nightmare into Stiles' head at a family dinner for insulting his alligator shit-kickers. Killing him, from the perspective of the creature, seemed like a waste.  

Unless it really was that scared. Maybe Bohannon's murder spoke more to the beast's temperament. It was already hesitating with the Stilinskis. It knows it has something to lose if it gets sloppy and hurts one of Stiles' family, if not Stiles himself, prematurely.  

He meets Derek's appraising gaze when he reaches to the cruiser. They say nothing; he doesn't have to just yet. He climbs into the backseat next to Derek and weaves their fingers together as they ride back to the house.  

  

“Derek, you mind if I talk to my son a minute?” John asks as they exit the car. Derek nods curtly and makes his way to the porch where Gumma’s perched in her rocker and Gaby is sitting cross-legged in the doorway, brushing out Erica’s long golden curls. For once, Erica looks… weirdly contented. Not pissed or smirky or devious, just calm. It didn’t take her long at all to get over Gaby’s smell, though Stiles catches her slanted stares from time to time when Gaby passes her. She’s on the lower steps, legs crossed and stretched, leaning back on her elbows as Gaby plays with her hair, periodically pulling a brush through the ends.  

“What’s up, daddy?” Stiles asks, looking away. His jubilant tone fades when he sees the look on his dad’s face.  

“I’m gonna preface this by say’n, you’re a grown up and you’re gonna make your own decisions.”   

Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets and flexes his toes in the grass. “It’s not the age difference,” says John, “or because Derek’s a werewolf, although, I would prefer someone without the razor sharp claws and teeth honestly-,” 

“Dad-,” he’s silenced by the rise of his father’s hand.  

“I know you two are get’n close, but, and I feel the need to point this out to you, Kiddo because you don’t seem to be pay’n it much mind; Derek has PTSD.”  

“ _Dad-,_ ” 

“And so do you,” John puts firmly.  

“Just because-,” 

“Stiles, does Derek seem like the kind of person that deals head-on with his emotions? I’ve been watching him. Just because he’s damn good at suppressing what he’s feeling absolutely does not mean he’s handling it. And the word possessive is coming to mind more and more-,” 

“He’s _not_. It’s not possessive, it’s protective. Of course, he’s over-protective. He’s one of the few people on the planet that has the right to panic when things go wrong around people he...,” Stiles throat jams up and he swallows hard, “And… and I’m not as scared when he’s around. That sounds dependent and unhealthy, but it’s true.  I already know how weak I am,  Peter made sure I won’t ever forget again,  but Derek makes me feel safe. You have no idea how good that feels after thinking every little noise, every shadow, was some monster creep’n up on me.”  

John claps a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head, “Kid, the last thing you are is weak. Don’t you ever think otherwise. And I’m not saying Derek’s not someth’n you shouldn’t get after if it’s what you want, I just want you to see Derek for what he is. He’s not going to fix all of your problems and you aren’t going to fix his. Other people can help you heal, but they can't _heal_ you, get me? You gotta do that yourself.”  

“I don’t want him to, I just,” heat dances in his cheeks, “I want him close.”  

John squeezes his shoulder, “Well you certainly got that. And about four of his pups underfoot because of it.”  

Stiles' mouth pulls at the corners, but he isn’t sure if it’s a smile or a frown. He looks John in the eye and tells him, “I love you, dad.” 

“I love you too, kid.”  

 

Derek coughs into the crook of his elbow from where he sits on Stiles' bed. This is a thing that is happening apparently. Derek. In his room. Sitting on his bed reading something that caught his attention on one of the Stiles' bookshelves. Stiles tries his hardest not to be grossly obvious in his staring. He supposed to be focused on the sixth volume of his family's bestiary compendium. He's sure Gumma's already looked through it as evidenced by the disturbed dust line he'd seen on the shelf above her desk.  

Every couple of absolutely dry sentences he looks up and finds Derek where he was the last eight million times he's looked; back against the headboard, raven hair disheveled and fixed on the book resting both of his hands. This is not a conducive researching space. Derek hadn't asked to – hang out? Hanging out seems like something plebs do. Not Derek Hale. He'd just sort of showed up at the window, taken light abuse for being a stalkerwolf and then made himself comfortable.   

The next time Stiles gaze wanders Derek is staring right at him, eyes glowing red and smirking.  

Stiles' heart stutters. 

"You seem distracted," Derek says quietly, head ducking as his mouth stretches into a shy smile.  

"Really, you're gonna play coy with _me_? You know exactly what you're doing and this is super unfair. You've created a hostile work environment."  

"What am I doing?" 

Stiles feels his eyes widen slightly with excitement. It's not hard to set aside the monster research he's been trying to concentrate on. His grandmother's resources in regards to the therion are fairly skimp. He'd known they would be and now being flirt-teased by hotwolf trying very hard to look studious himself? Stiles decides what's happening at this moment deserves his full attention.  

"You're not even reading that book, are you? You just came up here to torment me."  

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Derek tells him, deadly straight-faced and monotone.  

"Mhmm. What's that book even about?" 

"It's yours. Shouldn’t you know." 

"You're reading it, shouldn't you?"  

Derek quirks a brow at him, looking amused.  

"So if you aren't reading," Stiles continues, going back to skimming the minuscule print blocking up the page before him, "Sorta begs the question as to why you're here at all, huh?" 

"You want me to leave."  

"I want you to explain yourself." 

He hears Derek huff softly, a sound that might be a little laugh. Determined not to look up, Stiles actually starts reading, preoccupying his otherwise electric thoughts. Goosebumps prickle his forearms. 

The short version of the page condenses to:

Therions cannot make others of their kind; at least, not in the way werewolf makes more wolves. They absorb and absorb until they break apart, splitting into two and or sometimes multiple entities, but the separated parts are not always sentient. Most of the time their energy is returned to the Land, leaving behind a plot of forest that is denser, more alive and impervious to even the cold touch of winter for a time. Early mortals called these patches of eternal spring cursed grounds, or serewood. The presence of so much energy in the trees and plants forces them to begin to consume any flesh-beings that wander through or are pixie-lead there.  

 _F_ _ascinating._  And unhelpful. 

"I like your smell," Derek tells him.  

Stiles smiles at the page, "I should start charging for admission." He folds the book closed and stands. Derek watches him curiously until he reaches the bed. He's unsure for a few moments. He knows how loud the blood rushing through him is, how it's making his heart slam and his palms sweat and he can't help grinning like a fucking idiot. Deciding that he is not a child, but a fully grown (ish) man that can make decisions, Stiles crawls on to the bed on all fours, trying to look as sensual as possible and not like a manic, shaky, hot mess.  

He should feel stupid – and does a bit – but Derek's expression tells him that what he's doing is not silly, not immature, not something to laugh at. Derek's curious and still, smile gone from his lips. The tone shifts drastically as he gets closer. He stops feeling silly; there's candor between them. This is something they both want and there's nothing to criticize. Stiles pads over Derek's legs, back arched, face scarlet and radiating heat.  

He comes to the halt when he's hovering just in front of Derek's chest. He's close enough to feel the puff of his wolf's breathing on his cheeks. Stiles isn't totally sure where he wanted this to go, but he's here now, dick thrumming, growing under the taut fabric his jeans. His nipples barely brush the inside of his shirt and every light touch sends a tingle down his spine, one that makes his lower back strain, pushing his ass out a little further. He hopes Derek can smell him, can smell his heat and sense the vibrations of just being this close is causing.  

Crystalline eyes fixate on his. Slowly, the glow bleeds into them, returning that bright, red flower of the alpha spirit to he stare. Stiles has not only Derek's attention, but the wolf's and he breathes unsteadily, his thighs aching.  

"What do I smell like now?" Stiles asks, around a shiver.  

Derek's skin dyes itself dark; it's the only physical indicator he feels anything at all. His self-possession only works Stiles up more. He's trained himself to work for affection to the point of where not getting it only makes him want it until he's practically begging. It’s a fucked up kink. He can admit as much, but he's seen some shit online that makes begging daddy for sex look like vanilla ice cream. 

"Like," Derek pauses, his nostrils flaring, "you're in heat."  

Stiles chuckles breathlessly, "That's good?"  

Derek's head ducks again, as it did before, and he grins, "Yes, Stiles, that's good."  

Taking the praise, Stiles jumps on an emboldened current, "What – what does that make you... want?"   

"A lot," Derek admits, looking back up at him.  

"What're you going to do?"  

"In your father's house? With Gaby and Erica downstairs?" Derek asks slyly, "Hearing everything you're saying." 

Stiles gulps in a hard punch of air, "Uh... oh." 

"Nothing," Derek tells him, hedging on disappointment. 

"R-right," Stiles says, moving away, but Derek catches his arm and he stills. 

"It's not – that, I don't want –," his fingers come up, moving over Stiles' chin until they drag down his bottom lip, "I want... a lot." 

"Me too," Stiles chuckles nervously, "A lot. In all the ways."  

Derek nods, mouth parted, he says, "Lay down."  

Stiles' head jerks up and down enthusiastically. He does as he's told and drops on to Derek's chest, body stretching the length of Derek's sprawled frame. He valiantly resists the urge to rut himself against Derek's thigh and rests his head against a waiting shoulder. Arms go around him, and holy crap, why the fuck haven't they been cuddling this whole time? Cuddling is definitely not cheating the whole 'let's be responsible adults and wait this out' thing. Derek's nose delves into Stiles' hair, his board hand sweeping short paths up and down his back.  

It dons after a few peaceful seconds that Derek's hand is, in fact, on his back. He hadn't really registered it or that Derek can certainly feels the raised scar tissue under the thin fabric of his shirt. It's surreal that a wolf should be able to touch him there and he feel nothing other than contentedness. His little crush on huge, frightening wolfman isn't just a crush, is it? Crushes are selfish, often a one-sided fantasy of what he wants another person to be. He'd projected a lot on Lydia before he knew enough to let it go, before he realized she was never going to fit into the perfect mold of what he thought he'd wanted. More importantly, crushes didn't account for trust.  

He implicitly trusts Derek; someone fully capable of hurting him the way Peter had. The idea that Derek would ever lay a hand on him like that now is utterly ludicrous. He buries his face in Derek's side, takes in the scent of his clothes and sweat and trembles.  

In an attempt to will down the stiffness between his legs, Stiles asks, "Tell me something I don't know about you."  

"Like what."  

"Anything."  

"I don’t like peas." 

Stiles stares flatly up at him and Derek's brow arches. He waits for a less Facebook-About-Me answer. The corner of his mouth curls momentarily as something plays on his tongue. 

He says, "I like – cats." 

"Dude-," 

"Because my family had one. Most cats don’t like werewolves. This cat was feral. It used to go with us on runs. When she got old, she stopped sleeping on the porch and would come inside to sit by the fireplace. The younger kids would brush her and feed her and she'd gotten so fat and lazy she'd just lay there purring really loud." 

"What was her name?" Stiles asks through a massive grin.  

"Asshole."  

Stiles snorts unattractively, he barks, " _What?_ " 

"My mom used to call her Asshole because she'd pee all over the porch and trees in the yard and leave mouse heads by the door. I stepped on a few barefoot by accident."  

"That's... gross. And sort of charming."  

"You." 

"Me? Oh. Um, I dunno. I'm scared of spiders. And heights. And enclosed spaces. And crowds. And clowns."  

"And wolves."  

Stiles sits up as much as him being splayed along Derek will allow, "Wolves yes. You, no." Derek pushes him back down easily.  

"It wasn't a criticism." 

"Being afraid of monsters just means I'm highly evolved, thanks." 

"You should be afraid," Derek glances over at him, "It'll keep you alive."  

"Sort of sad that you're right." 

"You don't have to be scared when – I'm here." Derek's fingers rub the divet of Stiles' spine where it meets his lower back.  

Trying to divert blood from his crotch goes out the window at that. The words send a hot thrum careening down his chest and into his belly. He can see where his dad might be getting the possessive feeling from. But to Stiles, that's not possessive, it's fiercely protective and that's what he wants, _needs_ , to hear. Curled against his alpha, warm to his side and safer than he's ever felt, is it so horribly wrong that he's too turned on to function?  

Derek groans, the sound reverberating from every plain of his body.  

"I should... uh," Stiles can feel the wet spot in his underwear, can feel pre-cum soaking into his jeans. It's been a while, ok? A long, long, dry, while. This is high school as fuck, seriously, he cannot remember the last time just laying next to someone made him so... wet, for lack of a better word. "I should get back to reading."  

Derek nods. Judging by the bulge nudging into Stiles' knee, he decides disengaging is the smart move for everyone here. But they _will_  come back to this discussion, honestly by the time their able, there won't be any words just, groans and whines and cries – and Stiles needs to _not_ right now. He peels himself off Derek, leaving that safe harbor he knows he'll return to often, and awkwardly shuffles back to his desk.  

He miserably thumbs through the Bestiary for the rest of the night until it's Derek's turn for patrol. On his way to the window, leather jacket in hand, Derek leans over Stiles, takes a deep breath, nose pressed to his collar and his tongue licks a shocking trail from Stiles' pulse point to the shell of his ear.  

" _Oh my God!_ " Stiles wails, but by the time he's swiveled around in his chair, all that greets him are his curtains wafting in the night's breeze.  

He's out of his pants so fast it must set some sort of record and he's rolling in his own sheets, drinking in Derek's scent, trying to cover himself in it. His shirt pushed up to his armpits, evening air washing over his bare chest, stiffening his nipples and covering him in overwrought, smoldering skin. He can't breathe, can't keep himself quiet; it only takes a couple strokes over his cock and a finger prodding his asshole before he's coming all over himself.  

 

By the time he's dragged himself down for breakfast, Derek's already at the table, talking silently with Boyd. Derek blinks a few times and then he's staring while the others dodder around him putting out place settings. He must have heard Stiles trampling down the stairs, but hadn't been prepared to smell himself and what Stiles had done in his absence. Stiles flushes and makes for the kitchen to ready some tea; the image of Derek's pleased expression branded on his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll stop teasing you some day, but it is not this day.
> 
> HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY. 
> 
> The SO and I are celebrating all week so it's not over yet, hence, this is not a belated Valentine's gift. It's right on time. 
> 
> Lot of talky talk in this one. I want more Chris Argent. Maybe not in this one, but I love his character. Hot hunter dad to the rescue. The Argent/Melissa ship was something I did not know I needed. It is the first right thing Davis has done in a long time and probably the only high point of the last season. Yes. I still watch the show. It's terrible. The characters suck eggs and Stiles was in... what? Three episodes? But yes. I'm a glutton for punishment. I will incorporate Argent/Melissa junk into the next fic - I've got a rough idea of what it will be, but I'm not letting myself write it until this shitshow ends. I'd like to say we're almost done, but realistically, if I want this thing to end that way I've outlined we're like.. half way. I promise the exposition will matter at some point. 
> 
> Until then have some Stiles being sexy. 
> 
> There's prolly a lot of typos and shit in this part because I had to rewrite a lot on the fly, but this is a WIP so that stuff's to be expected. I will find them and fix them later. Honestly, I won't be editing anything until the fic concludes in the interest of getting this beast finished. 
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of this latest poopsplosion my good fellows!


	17. Dreamcatchers

Stiles is sweeping up just before closing up the shop. He and Gumma are taking a few nights to rest before resuming pack dinners. Werewolves tuck away more in one meal than most small nations. Needless to say, it takes hours to cook for them and Gumma doesn’t half-ass anything. Each of their stomachs may contain an event horizon, but the little old lady busts her ass, and Stiles’, every other night to make sure they get their fill.  

This next one will be the _big_ one, hence the small intermission. Isaac’s introductory dinner. He’s only been a wolf for six months, but that’s not what’s got the Hale pack worried. Isaac has a profound sense of smell. Derek says it goes beyond standard wolf abilities. He can pick up on scents that are weeks old, describes them almost like they’re visions.  

Putting him in a room with Gaby is going to hit him twice as hard as Boyd and Erica; it’ll be a sensory punch. He’s already been put under express orders not to leave Derek’s side while in the house for any reason. He may have caught whiffs of Gaby before, those traces of her are going to be nothing compared to the real thing.  

Despite certain head-bashing encounter, Stiles does feel slightly bad for Isaac. He's been able to glean that Derek's pack has been staying close to the Den in a small house at the edge of the property, but they're rarely there anymore. All except for Isaac, anyhow. While Erica, Boyd, and Derek are busy taking care of Gaby and Stiles' family, Isaac's been alone. Boyd's mentioned that Isaac doesn't stay in the house all day, that he goes on hunts by himself sometimes or the movies, but being separated from his family can't be easy. Especially for a wolf.  

Derek occasionally disappears for one or two days at a time to be with Isaac; as much as Isaac's pack bond cries out for the others, Derek's is that much stronger because he's alpha. Having his pack split like this isn't easy for him, but that's about to end and that's why this dinner _has_  to work.  

Gumma has planned a five-course meal for the occasion. The pack will be all together under her roof and she wants the whole thing to go off as seamlessly as possible, they all do. The night will be intense enough on its own, the least the Stilinskis can do a stuff them full of good food.  

So tonight Stiles mans his post in Bazaar for the closing shift. The bells above the door tinkle and heavy footfalls echo across the floor. His stomach flutters. He's been reduced to a squirmy thirteen-year-old every time he encounters something that reminds him of Derek. Like the sound of boots crossing a threshold. He's a sap. A big gooey sap bucket for a big broody wolfman.   

“I’m about the close-up, is there anything I can help you find, boss?” Stiles asks, glancing up from his work.  

A huge man stands in the front of the store taking in the dreamcatchers strung in the rafters. He reaches up one meaty hand to brush his fingertips along the edges of the lowest hanging feathers. Stiles' witchy powers catch something that put him on edge. He may not be able to flat out read peoples' minds like Gumma has done on occasion, but he can sense when a person has no thoughts at all. This man's energy current is a flat line. There are only a few kinds of people who sound like silence: the dead, the pious and the violent. His wide hands are ridged with swollen knuckles and scar tissue; his face, too, is traced by livid scars.  

He does not react to Stiles' question. Most people ignore retail workers, but, whether they know it or not, they do at least _react_. Fleeting eye contact, shuffled steps, turned down mouth or a shy smile, _something_. This man does nothing. He's entranced by the dreamcatchers, fingers making them swing lightly.  

 From behind the hulking man steps Peter Hale.  

“You know,” Peter says, and Stiles is frozen in place, broom handle crushed under a lily-white grip, “every so often I think of how your filthy Spark blood stopped you turning. Those scratches were more than enough to give you the gift, come to find out you’re a dirty swamp-witch just like your grandmother. If I’d made you wolf we could have done this right, with dignity.”  

Stiles doesn’t trade words with him; because when Peter Hale comes calling there’s only one thing he should be doing. He dives behind the register, snatched the leather pouch of mountain ash and flings it into the air. The shimmering night dust explodes, scattering around him in a six-foot diameter.  

Peter makes no move, only watches with a gut-churning lilt on his lips. 

Unfazed, the wolf says, “I see why Derek’s so taken with you. You’re nothing if not resourceful. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you’d have made for an excellent wolf.”  

“I’d look terrible without eyebrows.”  

Peter chuckles, “It’s true, the beta shift isn’t for everyone.” 

“What’d you want?” Stiles barks, impatiently. His calves strain under the locked weight of his whole body.  

“How frank. You’ve been spending too much time with my nephew. Well, Stiles, and really I take very little pleasure in this, but when I punish insubordination, I expect my teachings to sink in. That doesn’t happen when my wolves run off to their Spark cum-rag to get patched up.”  

Stiles swallows down a mouthful of bile. _His_ wolves. Nothing about Derek or his pack belongs to Peter.  

“I don’t even blame you, honestly,” Peter continues, running his claws over the shelves, they dig into the wood grain too easily, “You wouldn’t have known, but Derek certainly did. And he still needs to be punished.”  

The big man lumbers over to one of the display tables and thumbs through some of the tomes resting on it. Stiles can’t take his eyes off him. He balls his hands into fists at his sides.  

“Stop pretending this is about Derek,” Stiles snarls. 

Peter meets the challenge in the air with a calm smile. “You’re right. Except, you must see how the change in motivation still doesn’t get you off the hook. You can’t give me what I want, but Derek? He certainly can. Until recently I’ve had nothing to leverage,” his smile turns into a sick grin, “Now every time I see him he wreaks of musk. All that alpha instinct ready to mate, and Dara Charlebois isn’t exactly his type.”  

Stiles shakes his head, “He won’t give her up for me. Even if he tried I’d kickass; you don’t have shit.”  

“Don’t be trivial,” Peter snorts, eyes lighting up, “You’re smarter than that.” 

The big man comes around the table. Stiles backs up as much as he’s willing to the ash circle’s edge, but it’s pointless. The man, the _human_ man, reaches through the barrier, kicks it into a cloud as he passes. He grabs Stiles by the shirt front and slams him over the counter, pins him there by the back of the neck. Stiles’ brain rubs out. It’s a wash of too many fiery demons. He thrashes only to be compressed into the wood, choked between the solid surface and the vice-like hand that nearly wraps his whole neck.  

Peter leans on both elbows beside him.  

“I’d do this myself, but like I said, you aren’t a wolf. It’s a miracle I didn’t kill you last time.” He sucks a deep breath through his nose beside Stiles’ ear, and laughs lightly, “You know, under all the fear, you stink like a bitch in heat. You must _keen_ every time he touches you; practically an omega slut yourself. How often do you get on your knees and beg him for it?”  

Stiles rasps, venom in his veins, “ _He’s gonna_ kill _you_.”  

“We’ll see,” Peter muses and straightens up.  

Stiles closes his eyes, breathes as the first punch whips him in the ribs.  

 

He manages to get free of Peter’s thug for a few seconds, sputtering, blood burning in one eye. When the man lunges Stiles throws a hook that gets him in the nose and his head snaps back satisfyingly. The strike serves only to rile him into a frenzy and he tackles Stiles to the ground. He keeps waiting to go numb, for his body to shield him from the pain. It doesn’t happen. The man works his torso until he can get himself into a ball, protect his stomach.  

Something in his side cracks. He’s not sure if he’s imagining the sound or if the sound of breaking bone really does crackle in the air. He can’t scream, can’t move, can’t breathe. The pain in his lung if sharp as a razor and blood comes up his throat.  

“That’s enough Marcus,” Peter says boredly. Peering across the sideways slant of the floor Stiles sees Peter pick something up through his one good eye. His phone; it must have fallen out of his pocket. Dread coats his stomach. Peter squats in front of him, dials a number and sets the phone next to his head.  

“Hello?” croaks the speaker. A sob almost claws its way off Stiles’ tongue, but he sucks it down. Marcus’ huge hand grabs the point of the crack in his ribs and he tries, he fights to stop the scream, but the man _squeezes_ until an agonized cry warbles out of him. Tears run with scarlet over the bridge of his nose.  

Rustling on the other end of the line, the creak of a bed spring and then, “Stiles?!” 

Peter gathers the phone up, and a whimper escapes Stiles as he weakly, mindlessly reaches for it. Reaches for Derek’s voice.  

“He’s at Bazaar,” Peter reports soberly, “and,” he shoots Stiles a pitying glance, “You’d better hurry.”  

The line goes dead. Peter drops the phone, looks down on Stiles one last time, “I hope you know that this wasn’t personal.” He sweeps out the doors and Stiles loses consciousness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one mostly because the next chapter gets a little/lotta dicey and I want it as good as I can get it. 
> 
> You're probably feeling Peter-hate right about now. And I just wanted to say, I don't have anything against Peter. I really like his character. Steter's not bad, there's a few fics there hot as frick. I'm just getting the feeling that anyone may read this may be thinking I'm protraying Peter in this role rather than a different character because he's the obvious villain. To which I say, yes and no. I chose him for a specific reason and not out of spite. The best character's are inherently flawed which actually makes him one of my favorites. There's a cool chapter coming up soon that's going to explain Peter's POV that I think you will all enjoy. Or I hope so. Or not. I don't know man I can't hardly remember how the sun looks like in the outside place. 
> 
> Unrelated BS:  
> Life is a Highway has been stuck in my head, on repeat since November. Do have any idea how hard it is to interact with other humans when Life is a JoshGadDamn Highway is shrieking in your mind grapes? 
> 
> Annnd my birthday's on Saturday so that's a cool thing I suppose. Which means special arts and chapter for you. 
> 
> Btw, you look very sexy today. Everyone else is too chicken-shit to tell you, but I think you look hot. 
> 
> Lemme know whatcha think!


	18. First Wolf

Hair tickles his face and tears are wet his cheeks. They aren’t his tears. He doesn’t feel… doesn’t feel anything. Warmth rolls through his muscles thick and slow as sap. It’s pleasantly dizzying. 

“Am-I… high?” he slurs, head lulling into the cradle of soft arms.  

“Please don’t tell, please don’t.”  

Stiles frowns, “Gaby?”   

Fingers rake his scalp, tug on his hair and she holds him tighter. He’s – he’s still at Bazaar, still on the floor, propped up in Gaby’s lap. Her skin is radiating heat, blistering everywhere they're touching. She left the house? By herself? And has… one, two, three of everything?  

“Whas happen-ning?” he asks. He can breathe again. The pressure on his lungs, the blood gurgling in his throat, it’s all gone.  

“You can’t tell, I’m not supposed to,” Gaby insists madly, squeezing him.  

Stiles giggles, “Can’t tellwhat chickenbutt?”   

“Don’t tell Derek-” She’s sobbing. Gaby shifts him onto the floor, one hand cradling his head as she slides out from under him. She's completely devoid of clothing and looks... she looks like a _goddess_. Gaby is more wolf than any of them and it never occurred to Stiles until now just how unnatural clothes look on her when she's human. Her skin is iridescent, shining violet and blue and red, like – like mermaid scales or glitter or... fuck. Stiles blinks hard to get his brain under control, but it's no use. He's on a vision quest; he's one with the ever-loving universe.  

Stiles tries to reach back for her, but Gaby's already disappearing into the shadows of the shop, fur sprouting, limbs bending.  

He chuckles, stomach fizzy and full of light. Because what? What even is this. He’s totally just slipped into an alternate reality where everything is made of cotton candy and sparkles and warm sweaters.  

He falls into a drugged fit of laughter when the front doors fly open. He should be scared, but it’s wonderful, the easy sway of the heavy hazel planks, the way the sickle moon lights the inlaid glass panes. Knees drop to the floor in front of him and suddenly he’s upright, but his bones are jelly and he can’t really do much besides limply hang in the hands holding him up.  

“Stiles, what happened?” Derek asks, fumbling when he realizes Stiles can’t support himself.  

“You’re likuh big, growly, sex wolf,” Stiles mumble-chuckles into Derek’s shoulder, “I wanna lick you all the time – like EVERYWHERE.”  

“What the hell is wrong with you,” Derek gruffly mutters as he juggles his charge, both to keep him from falling over and partly to stop Stiles’ weak attempts to bite his neck.  

“I’m sooo good, sourwolf, I’m, I’m,” he swallows, blinks a few times, “Doyou remember who actu-ally gitsthe Arken Stone at the – end of theHobbit?"  

A broad, warm palm cups his face, “Where’s Peter.” Derek asks patiently. 

“He left.”  

“What did he do to you.”  

“Oh, shit, Der, he – you should, uh,” God Derek smells good, like sweat and laundry detergent and outside, “You should – hospital.”  

“You aren’t hurt,” Derek says quietly, hand moving from Stiles’ cheek to carefully check the rest of his body. Fingers glide over his shirt, bunch up the fabric. He sighs when he finds nothing and folds the material back down. “You smell like...” he mutters and then his eyes go hard, “ _Gaby_. Where is she now?”  

“She left too.” 

Alarm strings out Derek’s words, “ _With Peter_?” 

“Oh, nononononono, she left on her own. Ran out the back jus' now. _Oh my God._ Derek. Derek am I werewolf? I can’t tell mydad I’m a werewolf. Like thassnot fair, I can’t be hyperactive and bi and a werewolf; he’s already sotired-,”  

“She didn’t turn you,” Derek says firmly, “I think she healed you.”  

“You guys can dothat? Dossit work on cholesterol?”  

Derek rolls his eyes, “I gonna lift you, don’t do that… thing.”  

“What?” 

“Don’t flail, or I’ll drop you.”  

“ _I do not flail._ I explore spacial reasoning through a seriesof articul-ated gestures.”  

“Don't.” Derek hooks an arm under his knees and the world goes out from under him, makes his chest burst with air.  

“I, uh, I don’t feelso – whas wrong with me?”  

“Euphoria,” Derek says and carries him from the store, “It happens after a wolf drains your pain.” 

“Paindrain,” Stiles giggles.  

“If she healed you completely your brain is producing more endorphins than it needs.” Derek bodies him into his car. It feels good to sit. Fuck, everything feels good, dude. Stiles grabs at Derek’s jacket, “Wai-wai-wait, you gotta, um, you gotta lock up the store.” 

“Where are the keys?”  

Stiles fishes them out of his pocket with tingling fingers and drops them somewhere by his feet by accident. His motor skills have abandoned the front desk of his brain having left a 'Gone Fishing' note. Their return is TBD. As Derek reaches between his knees for them he asks, “Hey, do I smell like a bitchinheat? Issat a thing?”  

Derek huffs, mouth screwing up, “Just stay here,” he says and tacks on, “don’t touch anything.”  

 

Gaby’s scent is fresh on the porch and Derek breathes out his relief. She’s inside, her heartbeat close to Gumma’s steadier one, maybe curled up on the old woman’s bed. He can’t think too hard on what happened. Can’t think about Peter putting hands on Stiles, hurting him again, not being there to protect him. The anger that it cooks up is more than he can control. His hands were shaking on the wheel. They still are.  

He wrestles Stiles from the car. He’s pliant and giggly and sags heavily into Derek’s side like he’s drank his weight in grain liquor. The stairs prove to be too much of a challenge and Derek sweeps him up before he falls and breaks an ankle. He manages to get the squirming mass of pale limbs and laughter up to his room, sets him in bed.  

"Don't move," Derek tells him and Stiles gives him a wobbly thumbs up from where he's splayed on his back. It's harder than he thought it might be to leave the room, even for a moment. Derek goes down the hall to Gumma's door. It's cracked; the latch is long broken after decades of use, and the door sways into its frame in time with an oscillating fan on the other side.  

The old woman doesn't stir when he enters, but Gaby peeks up from the floor on the side of the bed farthest from the door. Her anxiety is tangy. It drags her scent too close to the misshapen version it had been the night they had found her. Derek kneels by her and takes her big head in both hands. A sorrowful whine whistles out of her.  

"Thank you," he says. There aren't words, there's no larger, more profound way to tell her how terrified he was. How terrified he is. Peter is unrecognizable. He's a monster. Not a predator. Not a wolf. Not a Hale. The scent of blood was everywhere in Bazaar, it's still on Stiles' clothes, staining his skin. Enough blood to kill him. He should be dead. Frost coats his spine when he thinks it, makes him grimace.  

The thought of losing Stiles knocks all the wind from his lungs. He hadn't examined the extent of his attachment, hadn't wanted to see his own vulnerability because of it, hadn't had the time to consider it, hundreds of stupid little reasons. Now he can't look away. He can't let go.  

He's... he's fallen. The word tolls endlessly after his thoughts pull it from the attic of terms he swore to never use again. It was so easy, he hadn't really known it was happening and now it's too late; he's stranded exactly where he wants to be.    

Derek leans his forehead to that of the wolf before him and shuts his eyes.  

"Thank you," he repeats. She's a miracle. She's always been a miracle. Saving Stiles is just another small part of why she's so special.  

Fur turns to flesh under his hands. Gaby's sobbing into his palms, gripping his wrists, willfully touching him. The acrid scent of anxiety dissolves. She crawls into his lap, clammy hands gripping the back of his neck and he folds around her.  

"I'm, I'm sorry," she sobs into his shoulder. 

Derek prays to any that listen that she isn't huddled against him just because she thinks she did something wrong as if touching will absolve her of something.  

"You didn't do anything bad," he mutters, rocking back and forth like he used to do when she was a baby.  

"Mama says not to do it," she sniffles.  

Defeat makes him heavy, sluggish to react to her words, "I don't think Aunt Catherine wanted you to hide it because it's bad; I think she just wanted to keep people from taking advantage."  

A wolf that could not only take pain, but heal wounds with nothing but a touch? It _should_ stay hidden. That kind of power is sacrosanct. It's a danger to Gaby and those dear to her. A First Wolf is special, he just hadn't known how special. He remembers Stiles manic voice on the phone, trying to understand why Gaby of all omegas? He'd thought, if there's any sort of higher thinking to such a brutal act, that Peter chose her for the novelty of it, maybe hoping to breed a pack of True Shifters.  

Bile rises in his throat every time he thinks it.  

Suddenly Peter's adamance over obtaining her doesn't seem so trite. Who is to say what the limits of her power are? Is it only wounds? Can she take sickness? Delay death? The possibilities leave him stricken, his stomach sloshing and full of acid.    

"It's ok," he hears himself say, petting her wild hair, "It's going to be," but he can’t finish it. He can't lie to her.  

"Am a good girl?" She asks miserably into his shirt. Her crying has slackened, but her shaking hasn't. Her voice is vacant, hollowed out by conditioning, like she's asked a million times. The answer either leaves her broken or unbroken. Tears slip from the corners of Derek's eyes.  

He can't speak, can’t force himself to answer, because no matter what he says all she'll hear is Peter's voice.  

He cradles her until she falls asleep. Once she's gone he lifts her to Gumma's bed and tucks her in next to the old woman.  

 

Derek's empty when he returns to Stiles’ room. Stiles' breathing is steady, not quite asleep, but not awake either. He sits at the foot of the bed and scrubs his face; dried salt comes off of his cheeks. Movement on the mattress barely resonates in the dead end of his thoughts.  

"Hey sourwolf," Stiles croaks groggily. He yawns and rubs his eyes, "Whatsa matter?"  

Derek shakes his head. He knows it takes too long to respond. 

"Could you...," he glances up to see Stiles looking at him, trying and failing to concentrate, "could you take off my shoes? My fingers aren'tso good." 

Derek nods through no command of his own and pulls Stiles ankles into his lap. There’s blood painting the laces and spatters of it flaking on Stiles' face and collar. He yanks Stiles’ sneakers off and dumps them at the foot of the bed.  

“Derek?” 

“What.”  

“Issnot your fault, ok?”  

A humorless snort puffs out of him. His wolf circles inside him whining mournfully. There was no flowery language to make it something it isn't, nothing to justify this. Not this time.  

“It’s not _your fault_ ,” Stiles barks out adamantly, heel jabbing Derek in the ribs, “Stop tryna martyr yourself an' come cuddle the shit outta me.”  

Derek blinks at him dumbly.  

“I mean it, dude,” he snaps.  

He takes in the steely creature before him. The human that should be scared of him, more now than ever, regardless of the euphoria. Stiles glares, or tries to, right back at him, but just looks more tired and bewildered than anything. Derek doesn’t want to think. He’s too exhausted, caught in an adrenaline crash.  

He wants nothing more than to fall into bed next to Stiles, bury his face in the warmth of Stiles' neck, watch him breathe and fidget as he sleeps. The flush in Stiles' skin sinks darker as Derek regards him, the speckles on his cheeks standing out in the haze. The turn of his nose, his dark lashes, his red mouth, all of it is untouched; there’s no pain evident anywhere on him. Even his blemishes are gone and the ever-shifting arrangement of bruises on his shins and knees as well. Whatever Gaby did to him, it’s doused him in a ruddy, healthy glow.  

A wisp wafts into the air, one he’s faintly scented before, but this is sharper, floating over’s Stiles’ ivory skin. Arousal, heat, spark. Derek shivers. The scent comes up strong and fast and humid, exaggerated maybe because Stiles is so relaxed that none of the familiar smells of worry are diluting it. 

That's why Derek stands up, shuffles to the chair by Stiles' desk. He's not willing to leave the room while Stiles is so vulnerable, and that's the point. Stiles is vulnerable. No matter how good Stiles smells, how badly Derek needs to be close to him, mingle their scents, touch him, he's not Peter. He's not.  

He's his mother's son; the person, the alpha, she would want him to be.  

"Sleep it off," Derek says, slumping into the chair, his exhaustion truly overpowering him.  

Sheets rustle as Stiles shifts on to his side to face the room, "Hey Sourwolf?"  

"Hmm?" 

"I like you lot."  

Derek feels a small, reclusive smile edge onto his mouth.  

"Imma prolly marryyou, 'kay?" 

Derek's smile stretches, though it's too dark for Stiles to see if he's looking. He shakes his head, with a hint of amusement. Derek's not sure of anything, not really. The ground under his feet is torn by drought, uneven, constantly threatening to buckle. But more and more he's sure of Stiles. Of his bright spark.  

Stiles is already gone, passed out finally, little noises grizzling from his throat.  

Derek's shining beacon in the night.  

 

  He's not groggy at all when he wakes up. It feels like... like if a hangover was suddenly a good thing, the total opposite of a splitting headache pulsating in his eye sockets and heavy limbs and angry stomach. He's Mia Wallace with an adrenaline needle sticking out of her chest. Everything feels amazing; not the psychedelic fog of shiny sounds and loud colors of last night, but electric energy.  

Stile pops upright in bed. The head rush is there and gone in an instant. Maybe still a _little_ high. Maybe take it slow. Breakfast. Need food. He catches sight of Derek still asleep in the chair at his desk. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person that likes other people seeing him sleep. He must be tired. Wouldn't he hear the change in Stiles' heartbeat? Is that enough to wake up a wolf? Maybe not.  

Pangs of pain and blood in his throat and fear coming hurtling back, running wildly, crying, a flock of wailing specters, drowning out all else until Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and wills it down. Palm pressed to his forehead he glances back at Derek, still sound asleep. Stiles tries to pad out of the room as quietly as possible. It doesn't work. The floors give him away, but it doesn't seem to matter. Derek's gone under, deep; he doesn't so much as flinch at the sounds.  

Stiles nearly dies the minute he steps out of the room. His foot catches in a giant furry side as he trips and flails over wolf-Gaby where she's curled up in the hall just beyond the door.  

" _Jesus,_ " he gasps, having somehow managed to not break his neck on the adjacent wall. Her wide-set, ancient eyes turn on to him sorrowfully. She's moving slow, unalarmed by his sudden appearance or pirouette into the corridor.  

That's... weird. 

"Are you sick?" Stiles whispers. Her gaze flits, but it's pretty clear she's drained from fixing him. Gumma's told him about the toll on sparks when they exert the kind of energy required for magic like this. He doesn't like the 'm' word, but there are some things that no amount of arcane knowledge and science can explain completely. This is one of those things.  

Gaby licks her foreleg and rests her head back on the floor. He pets her ruff. Her coat looks dimmer too. Or maybe that’s just confirmation bias.  

"I won't tell anyone," Stiles mutters, recalling her hastened words. He shouldn't be alive. He suppresses the memories but is still seeing scraps of them; the feeling in his side, the broken rib, and lung. It had to have been crushed or punctured. It was like being trapped ten feet underwater except the only water around was the blood pooling in his chest cavity. He shivers. The old house sighs, as it always does, but he whips around anyway. His brain is still scared, it wants to find glowing red eyes in the low light at the end of the hall. Perhaps, for a moment, Stiles is certain they're there.  

The two feelings juxtapose each other in a way that starting to dizzy him. The little frights, the clawing memory of Peter and the soundness of a perfectly functional body, the weightlessness in his limbs. Stiles pats Gaby one more time and goes to the bathroom for his meds. The person in the mirror makes him jump. The changes aren't major, just unexpected and he slaps the sink, ducking his head, frustrated by his own sporadic emotions.  

There's dried blood on him. More on his clothes than his skin, which must have rubbed off in his sheets while he slept. The blood, that he tries very hard to ignore – _very hard -_ is not what startles him. He's so _healthy_. His skin is clear of any stray zits and discoloration including the dark circles under his eyes that have been constant since high school. When he's thinking or anxious he chews his bottom lip to hell, but the pink skin of his mouth to smooth and full.  

On a hunch, he pulls his shirt over his head enough to get a look at his back. Four ugly claw marks glare back. Technically that's a healed wound; nothing for Gaby's power to mend. He'd hoped briefly they'd be gone too. Even if they were, he knows it wouldn't have changed anything.  

One last long stare into his own eyes, watching from the mirror glass, and he divests himself of his stained clothes and steps under the shower.  

 

"What's gotten into you, pupper?" John asks as he strides easily into the kitchen. Stiles and Gaby regard each other fleetingly, his hands stilled around the kettle on the stove and her quiet animal gaze lifting from the floor by the baseboard. He takes the initiative to lie for her, "Nightmares, I think." 

"No, not my girl!" His father replies. He kneels by Gaby's side and her head rises, tail flopping, happy to take a full neck and ruff rub down. "Don’t you worry Big Girl," he laughs softly, "Gum's got some decent draughts that'll keep 'em away; whip some up this afternoon." John glances at his son and does a minor double-take, "Someth'n going on, kiddo?"  

"Nah, just a weird night. Too many Doritos before bed."  

Unconvinced, John gages him, "Take a vitamin," he says skeptically, "And get Derek to call his pack over here. Your Gumma just finished blessing that monstrosity taking up half the garage."  

Gaby whines. She must understand some of what they're saying. She won't go near Trevor or the garage door. Although Trevor certainly doesn't look as macabre as before, he assumes Trevor is to Gaby what wax statues are to himself. 

Fucking _c_ _reepy._   

"Derek's asleep." It just sort of slips out. Derek. Asleep in the house. When his dad had not been aware of his presence in the house. The only indicator that he was near was the _supremely ostentatious_ Camaro parked on the lawn.  

John's parental sense of propriety crinkles his eyes, "He _what now_?"  

Gumma's voice calls from her office across the hall, "Alpha Hale is sleep upstairs," and then, sternly, "They are grown-up, Johnny. I catch Claudia in your room every weekend in 80s."  

 _Gramma_ _for the win._  

 _And to an equal extent Mom._  

Stiles tries to maintain a neutral expression. Not accounting for his near-death experience last night, Derek really was just sleeping. Which, what was up with that? Gaby's woken up to the sound of light talking in the next room her hearing's so sensitive.  

John levels a finger at him, "I leave an open box of condoms in the guest bathroom so you can be safe and no one gets in your business. Please tell me you remembered they're there-," 

" _Oh my God Dad_. _I buy my own condoms_. Also, not that it's the business of anyone _in this house_ , but Derek and I aren't actually a thing." _They're totally a thing._  

Gumma's cackling echoes down the hallway, the traitor.  

"I'm glad we cleared that up at a volume all of the neighbors can hear," snarks John, looking grossly satisfied, "Please go _wake up_ our guest so he can call his pack."  

"And send him to me when he is done," calls Gumma, "He is looking pale." 

 

Derek sits obediently for Gumma. Their chairs are equidistant from the floor, but he still towers over her. He feels like he shouldn't be taller than her. She's the alpha of this house. The Stilinskis aren't like him, but family hierarchy is common between them. He slouches. She's writing in what looks like a ledger, maybe for the store. A lot of shops in Hollow Downs still use pen and paper accounts logs as a backup to electronic systems out of habit. Although, he doesn't recall anything but the lights in Bazaar running on electricity.  

As he waits for her to finish, he listens to the sound of Stiles in the kitchen, fighting quietly with his father over turkey bacon.  

"You are getting sick," Gumma says suddenly, still writing.  

Derek can only frown. He's too drained to do much else, let alone think or speak.  

"Have you been sick before?" She asks. The old lady lays down her fountain pen, swivels to face him and carefully removes her spectacles.  

Derer shakes his head, "Never."  

Delicately she asks him, "Your metabolism prevents you from suffering mortal diseases, it is true, but have you noticed coughing spells? Prolonged sleep? Low appetite?"  

"It's the mountain ash," he says, and as he says it, he knows he's wrong.  

"No, szczeniak," she takes his wrist between her hands and finds his pulse, as she monitors it she says, "When wolves become ill is an illness of the brain. You are under tremendous strain, Alpha Hale. Your body is reacting to it by creating physical ailments."    

He blandly responds, "You think I gave myself a psychosomatic cold."  

"Do you think I am wrong?"  

He shakes his head.  

"It will go away when you address your emotions," she says, patting his wrist, "this cannot be done instantly, of course. However, these things can lead to worse symptoms, loss of control, for example." 

"I haven't lost control since I was a child."  

Gumma scrutinizes him and he feels small; not diminutive or patronized. It's like he's a kid again staring at his own grandmother.  

"Do you know the difference between stress and distress?" She asks gently. When he realizes he doesn't, he shakes his head again. "Stress is healthy. Completing math problems or writing or thinking critically causes stress. Many people like to use this word flagrantly. When stress begins to interfere with life, with thought, that is when becomes distress. Distress is unhealthy. When a child cries are they stressed or distressed?"  

"Distressed." 

"And when you cry, are you stressed or distressed?" 

Derek nods shallowly, "Distressed."  

"Distress does not care much for age. When it truly takes hold, child or not, you will lose control. The longer you allow it to fester, the more you will lose." 

He doesn't argue with her. He knows what happens to wolves that don't embrace the full spectrum of their emotions. He remembers Talia huddled with him in the basement, the triskele disc clutched in his hand, metal digging into his skin. She told him as much that night. Imbalance makes the wolf wild, forces it to overcorrect in times like these. A lower pack member can afford to crumble at any time, but this is not the time for an alpha to lose their way. Talia would disagree if she were here. She would be sitting next to Gumma, saying the same things.  

But Derek isn’t her. He is his own alpha. He must stay together, hold on for the sake of everyone else and once this is over, no matter how it ends, he has to trust that his pack, his... mate, will be there to stand guard when he succumbs. For now, no matter how detrimental, he needs to remain the alpha they need.  

He's been silent for too long and scrambles to say something vague in response, but Gumma beats him to it. Just like Stiles, she seems to know what he's thinking before he speaks aloud.  

"Is not my place to tell you how to deal with problem," she tells him gently, "You are alpha. Your decision will always be right decision for pack. I ask only that you consider yourself in these matters. Martyrdom may feel noble, but that road often leaves loved ones behind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, my friendos, has been a fucking labor. There are like four frikn versions of this chapter. I think it's right now. Meh.
> 
> You like Derek's fucking Batman moment at the end? He's the alpha Gotham deserves. 
> 
> And now we know why Gaby's so important. This is the fruition of one of the many 'Huh. Wonder if that'll come up later' moments. I really wish they'd done more wolflore junk instead of monster of the season. Like. Just. Fuck, Jeff. There's so many cool places you could've taken wolves that would've informed later shifting species. TW is a product of committee writing/ creation. Or, in layspeak, too many producers and sponsors trying to jam their cocks into the Cauldron of Dreams. I have come to terms with this. I'll try to bitch less. 
> 
> ANY FUCKING WAY. First Wolves like Gaby are the reason the McNamaras lives in the woods like weirdos. The idea is that the McNamaras are one of the oldest European packs in existence. Though, certainly not the oldest pack ever. I had this brain-baby, that never seemed relevant to the plot, that there were still packs in the Amazonian rain forests or Congo or Gobi Desert that have never been in contact with modern humans, but are still rumored to roam the wilderness; all of them still able to True Shift. Like, the ability to beta-shift isn't a thing to them. That's a fic on it's own. Perhaps later. 
> 
> Good news! For anyone who is heavily invested in mundane life junk, I suppose. So, remember that horrible job? The one that treats my team like children, is heavily retaliatory, participates in a grossly blatant cycle of abuse and is run by all the people let go or jumping ship from a certain horribly corrupt mortgage loan company? Well buds. I've quit. I remembered that I value my self-esteem and dignity and quit in order to pursue writing full time. 
> 
> If you are similarly treated in your job, I realize that quitting to do something creative with no money for essentials (housing, groceries, gas, etc) is not ideal. But I encourage you to find something else. You gotta wade through the dicks man. Don't put up with being treated like a dancing monkey. 
> 
> Well that was a long stream of consciousness. So, what're you geese up to?


	19. The Kiss

"I'm sorry," Erica sighs irritably, her inflection making it perfectly clear she is nothing of the sort, "but why are _you_ calling a pack meeting? Moreover, how the fuck did you get our phone numbers?"  

"An excellent question," Stiles chirps, leveling a stick at her, "You were invited here-,"  

"My invitation was a poop emoji," says Isaac, brandishing his phone unhappily. Scott poorly stifles a laugh by Stiles' side.  

"Isaac, you may speak when holding the Speaking Stick. But despite your rude outburst I elect to answer your query thusly: you slammed my fucking head into a very hard surface and can promptly eat my balls." Stiles and Scott low-five and Isaac nearly bursts a blood vessel rolling his eyes.   

Erica throws her blatant disapproval at Derek where he's standing across the circle from her. Stiles may or may not have rummaged through his pockets while he slept – sweet, dozy, scowly alpha all hunched over in the desk chair – and _borrowed_ his phone before waking him up.   

Derek shrugs. Deep, purple shadows stain his eyes like he hadn't slept at all and he'd hardly touched his breakfast. He also wouldn't say much, but he never says things and Stiles isn't counting the silence against the extra tumultuous thunderhead that's been tailing him.  

Last night is an incomprehensible blur. Stiles was half-convinced (trying to convince himself, sort of?) it was a dream until he went to the bathroom to find the flaking blood crusted to his skin. His blood. He'd stared at his reflection a long time after finishing his shower beholding the alien picture of wellness that now comprised his reflection. He didn't go looking for the missing gaps in his memory. The haunted look in Derek's eyes is enough. It had been bad. Peter kept crossing the line – he kept obliterating the line – pushing them further into a corner.   

"Back to the original question," Stiles says regally, mostly because he can see plainly how none of the wolves want to be here listening to him in the first place, and he thrives on the negativity of others. It replenishes his electrolytes. "Y'all are here to field test our plan to save Gaby."  

John hefted the mangy carcass draped on his shoulder into the middle of the circle for them all to see. Yes, it's broad daylight and a large group of shifty people are huddled studying a huge wolf corpse on the lawn. Honestly, the neighbors will have seen much weirder shit happen outside the Stilinski house. Has Stiles danced naked under a full moon? A few times, yes. Not for any magical reasons, just because it's liberating.  

The wolves flinch at the corpse.  

"This is your plan? This is what you've been working on?" Erica chokes out around her revulsion.  

"Which highway did you scrape that thing off?" Asks Isaac. He doesn't look as disgusted, more engrossed by morbid fascination. He even takes a step closer.  

"What do you smell?" Asks Gumma in answer, both hands folded over her cane. Her clever eyes divide among the pack.  

With a frown, Isaac looks to her covered in questions. He says, "Nothing."  

"I don't get it," grumbles Boyd, "How does that help Gaby? If you're trying to pass it off as her it won't work. That thing won't fool Peter and his betas aren't dumb enough to think we just happened to find the rogue wolf dead in the woods."  

Stiles tosses the Speaking Stick on the ground and snaps on a pair of rubber gloves, smirking. They watch him as Lydia reaches into her medical bag and pulls out a vial of dark liquid and a syringe. She pierces the rubber stopper and hands him the needle when it's full. He holds it away from himself. Needles. _Why?_   

"Give it some room," instructs John and the pack gladly steps away. Stiles crouches by the corpse. With a handful of its ruff, he sticks it – _God –_ and thumbs the plunger until the syringe is empty. 

He flits back, tripping frantically over his own feet so Trevor can do its thing.  

Stiles can barely smell the change in the air, but the wolves are aware of it instantly by the nervous rigidity in their shoulders.   

The wolf carcass flinches, muscles in its shoulders spasming. The pack lets out little warning snarls as the thing disjointedly rises to its belly, head hanging off its neck unnaturally. It doesn't move right, which, it's not exactly alive. It's jerky movements and popping joints puts confused, wary frowns on the group. Trevor is unmoving, staring at nothing through sightless glass eyes and then, shakily, hobbles to its feet. With no commands to act on, it continues to stand, fur rustling in the breeze.  

The blood energy saps out of the corpse quickly. Suddenly it flops limply back to the ground, twitching for a few moments before going still.  

"Dude that was sick!" Scott exclaims.  

" _What the fuck_ is that thing?" Snaps Erica. 

Stiles grumbles, " _Its_ _name is_ Trevor _."_  

"Is a conduit," Gumma explains, "like a golem." 

Boyd's eyes are on Derek, unnerved, "This isn't how we do things." He's trying to tell his alpha not to tap into the big, bad, evil, spark without actually saying so.  

Stiles isn’t having it, "I'm sorry what part of this is making you uncomfortable? Is it the part where ya'll don’t have a choice or the part where we've been sticking our necks out for your pack for the last month? Maybe it's the part where I took a beating that shoulda _killed_ me for getting involved."  

"Stiles," floats out of Derek, deflated by defeat.  

"How 'bout you shove the prejudice for two seconds?" Stiles shouldn't be taking out this sudden flare of anger on Boyd. He knows it, but he's tired and scared and _done_.  

John steps in before Boyd retorts, "I won't pretend the relationship between our kind is all rainbows and butterflies – but this conduit is not something to fear and it's _effective_. None of you have to help, but just because you don't want to be a part of it, does _not_ mean you get to interfere. I want that to be crystal clear right now, understand?" He shoots a hard glare at each of them until he gets nods in return.  

"How does it work?" Derek asks quietly.  

"With blood," says Gumma, "the conduit is sand and fur and some other ingredients. No soul will bind to this husk. Is not living thing brought back from beyond the Door, is not sentient. We inject with wolf blood and conduit animates, like shadow." 

"It had a smell," says Isaac, nodding. He's only one of the three that's utterly intrigued. He crouches by the shell, eyes raking over it curiously. "It was a wolf I didn't know, but definitely a wolf."  

Pleased, Gumma nods, "Yes. We use some spare blood for test. Once blood bonds with conduit, the conduit becomes indistinguishable from real thing."  

"You need Gaby's blood," says Derek.  

"Yes. And we will need lots of it. Amount of blood dictates how long conduit is animated. With more blood, scent will last longer, days, and animation is smoother, more lifelike."  

Isaac asks with a grin, "Will it run?"  

"It'll gallop," affirms John, beaming at his mother and son's work.  

"How much blood," Derek asks, mouth tied up into a button. He doesn't like this. Not one bit and it's painfully obvious.  

"About six quarts," says Lydia without missing a beat. No point in sidestepping.  

Just like Stiles thought he would, Derek goes taut and says with finality, "No."  

"She wants to do it," Stiles protests. 

"Six quarts is more than she has in her body," he barks. 

"Obviously we aren't going to take it all at once," sighs Lydia.  

"Derek, it smelled so real," Isaac puts in, "we round up enough of Peter's pack, enough _witnesses_ to chase it down, see it die, even if he doesn't believe it's her, there's no way he could keep chasing her," hopeful blue eyes go to Gumma, "We could even let one of them take it down, right?"  

Gumma nods.  

"If you time it right," says John, "maybe with a little extra corpse flower pollen, we could make it look and smell like a fresh kill." 

Boyd's still strongly against the whole thing by his expression, but he says nothing. He may not like it, but he's smart enough to recognize a foolproof plan when he sees one. Erica seems more open to the idea and Isaac; Isaac is a little too excited about this to be healthy.  

"It's not dangerous for Gaby," Stiles says steadily, "we take a quart every couple of days, keep her well fed and it'll be ready to go in a week or so."  

"I'll be drawing her blood," reassures Lydia, "and from what I've seen, werewolves replenish blood cells just as quickly as they heal. Drawing her's at the same rate as I would a human's more than ensures her safety."  

"It's your call, son," says John, arms crossed.  

Derek won't meet Stiles' gaze, his eyes are set on a vague middle point, avoiding everyone. Unhappily, he says, "It's Gaby's." Stiles stomach sinks. He doesn't disagree. It _is_ Gaby's call. When they had started creating the conduit he had known Derek wouldn't approve but hadn't cared. Just because his feelings for Derek had intensified doesn't mean he would have made a different choice if he could. This is the best – only – way to keep Gaby out of Peter's reach.  

It's not just disapproval though. Derek's given up. He's crumbling sand under high tide. Stiles recognizes the emptiness in his gaze. When he was in the hospital all he wanted was to stop _being_. He's not even sure if that meant death. He needed to stop existing, stop having to be himself.  

"Let's go for a run," Stiles blurts. He's Stiles Stilinski. Being himself means being able to get away with outbursts and embarrassing behavior.  

"What?" chuckles Scott. Bless him, but he's fucking oblivious.  

"I wanna go for a run," Stiles says shaking out his limbs, he starts walking back toward to the trees. 

"Stiles, how much Adderall did you take this morning?" His dad asks.  

Stiles gives an over exaggerated shrug. "Really scaredy-wolves? No one wants to race slow, weak human? For shame."  

Scott, a delighted grin stretching his cheeks, whips off his shirt and skips after Stiles.  

 "That scarf too fucking fashionable for a jaunt through the woods?!"  

Scott chides, "Yeah, uh, you're hair's – really beautiful Erica," the last part is too full of sincere awe to be sarcastic. Not that Scott does sarcasm. Stiles' incredulity is met with Scott whispering, "I can’t insult her, dude, she's too glorious. She smells like glitter and waffles."  

Erica rolls her eyes – seriously, the level of sass in the Hale pack has reached mathematical anomaly – as she pulls off her wedges. She's clearly annoyed but has caught on to why Stiles is doing this. 

"I'll give you a sixty-second head start," she says, prowling towards them. Suddenly this whole scheme to break the tension and lift spirits seems like an exceedingly stupid idea.  

"Hah, _what_?" Breathes Stiles.  

"You have sixty seconds to run little rabbits," she says through a smirk, eyes gleaming and lighting up beta amber.  

"Oh...," mutters Scott, having gone very still. His tone is that listing sort of inflection that only makes its way out when Scott is dually afraid and aroused.  

Stalking slowly up the hill behind her is Isaac, once again looking _far_ too eager to play. And by play, Stiles is imaging the way a cat "plays" with a cricket, which is to say, ripping its legs off first.  

Erica's fangs drop and she snaps at them. Scott and Stiles fall all over each other trying to get to the trees; knocking elbows and heads and everything else until they're sprinting through the leaf litter.   

 

 

There is one resounding, beating thought replaying through his head over and over and that is: this should be scarier. Right? 

 Running through the woods, mud kicking up his shins, air pounding through his lungs, _running from wolves_? He should be shit-your-pants terrified. Even a month ago something like this would have seemed like a scene out of horror movie. His brain should be hitting him with a barrage of intrusive panicky flashbulbs of memory.  

Stiles’ is a little scared – and out of breath – but it’s controlled fear. Like a roller coaster. It’s thrilling, trampling through the forest, barefoot, stopping every few minutes to catch his breath, sweat cooling on his nape as he moves. It’s thrilling because… because there’s no danger. He’s, Stiles burbles out a laugh somewhere between pants, he’s having _fun._ Last night he probably should have died and now he’s running in the open, _alive_ and having more fun than he’s had since - he can’t even remember the last time.  

“Scott!” he bleats into the rushes. Scott’s laughter meets him from some far off place. The fucking traitor. Just because Stiles isn’t as fast doesn’t mean Scott gets to abandon his best friend and _lit_ erally throw him to the wolves.  

Stiles slides down a ravine and makes for the next copse of trees at the bottom. He does so without eating shit and is plenty bummed no one saw it. Obviously, though, he cannot possibly be doing as well as he thinks he is. He’s loud and soaked in sweat to the point that his shirt is sticking to him. He finds the creek and splashes in. That’s a thing in movies right? Hounds can’t track through water? The creek itself is surging by fast enough that the water is coldish, at least, slightly cooler than the oppressive humid air.  

Stiles sloshes it onto the back of his neck, crouching in the shallows. The mud caked to his feet sloughs off. He rinses off his calves as well. The clear water looks inviting enough to drink, but he resists. This may be the country, but getting worms or dying of pesticide poisoning doesn’t seem worth the risk.  

As he rests, he becomes painfully aware that the birdsong and croaking bullfrogs he’s accustomed to are silent. A nervous prickle settles in his stomach, his heart rate picking up. His head swivels. He’s not sure what he’s expecting to find. It’s not like a pack of wolves would be detectable until they wanted to be.  

He stands, slowly, licking his lips. The only sounds filling the creek bed are that of the babbling water tumbling over stones and his own breathing. A grin tugs at his cheeks. He’s being watched. He can feel the wash of goosebumps up his spine. The moment's pure, one that's completely honest. No words. No thoughts.  

He is prey.   

The others probably would have tackled him to the ground by now, not remained hidden observing.  

Stiles wanders up the creek. He doesn’t run, doesn’t continually look over his shoulder. He’s prey, but not that kind of prey. His pace isn’t hurried. He leads his hunter deeper into the woods and the creek widens. It stays shallow. A couple inches of water rolling by, lapping the sandy edges, until he reaches a dark, blue pool.  

Claudia used to swim here, use to dip him in the water until he shrieked with delight. His dad told him about how his mother would bring him every other day in the summer when it was too hot to do anything else. He’s seen the pictures of her pulling him along in his inner tube, or balancing him on her hip while she showed him washed up freshwater clam shells. He thinks he remembers.  

He knows she’s buried in the town cemetery, but those are nothing but remains. The tombstone isn’t her, it’s just the place the memorializes her death. This pool is where she lived. Where she was happiest and this is where he comes to be with her.  

The silence follows him here. Even the crickets know better than to trill.  

Stiles bites his lip. His fingers curl around the edge of his shirt.   

Memories whip by on a gale too quickly to be individually recognizable, but they're all the same for the most part: hungry glances stolen at him, the gossip, the thoughtless questions. _Look at the freak with the cut up back_. He doesn’t even take his shirt off at the lake. Poor thing. It's his own fault. The idiot got mauled by some animal in the woods.  

The air feels foreign on his chest and back.  

He’d had stitches. At the time the doctor had told him how many. Things like that stopped mattering after days of having to lay perfectly still on his stomach, of slipping in and out of dreamless, drugged sleep. The scars would have been worse without being sewn shut, but after they were removed it wasn’t just ragged stripes of scar tissue, but pinpricks from where the needle had threaded through his flesh.  

It was ugly.  

His scars aren’t the livid crimson they used to be. They’ve faded some. His dad had asked the dermatologist if there were any medicinal salves they could use and was told the scarring was too severe. Even Gumma’s traiteur seemed at a loss, after many attempts to pray away his disfigurement.  

Stiles only sat through two sessions before he couldn’t take it anymore. They were only trying to help but offered help just meant something was wrong. He stopped talking about it. Stopped looking at himself in the mirror. Stopped taking his shirt off anywhere but at home.  

It had been a temporary fix. Denying what he was could only last so long. He doesn’t want to hide anymore, especially not from Derek.  

The only reason he hears rocks crunch behind him is that Derek doesn’t want to scare him. The sound makes his breath stammer. Goose pimples tighten his entire body. This exposure is surreal, more profound than being completely naked. Surreal, but not uncomfortable. He’s surprised, feels weightless his relief is so much, at how easy it is.  

He can feel Derek’s elevated body heat behind him like he’s standing in front of a lit hearth. He stands quietly behind Stiles for a few minutes tangibly mapping the four claw marks rippling from the top of his shoulder to his hip.  

Stiles gasps when Derek touches his spine. The sound is enough to make Derek pause and when Stiles doesn’t move away, his fingers return, gently brush the curve of his spine. Stiles' mind tries to dig up all of those hurtful looks and whispers he’s endured, but silencing it comes just as easily as letting Derek see his back in the first place.  

Because that's not what Derek's thinking, not why he's running his hands over Stiles' skin. What are scars to someone like Derek Hale? 

Derek’s palms settle on his waist. He presses his nose into the crook of Stiles’ neck and breathes deeply. 

“What happened last night isn’t your fault,” Stiles says, leaning back into him. Stubble tickles his nape. Derek’s mouth leaves a gentle stamp on his shoulder.  

His response comes out against that same shoulder, “I should have been there.”  

“You can’t follow me everywhere I go-,” Derek snorts as if that is exactly what he intends to do, “You _can’t_ ,” Stiles say more forcefully, “I don’t want whatever,” he swallows, “whatever we have to be about fear. Peter can’t… have this too.”  

It takes time for Derek to reply. His nose and mouth remain fixed to Stiles as he thinks.  

“You’re right.” 

“I feel like I need to record you saying that.”  

Derek nips at his neck, around a tiny growl and Stiles laughs.  

“What do you mean?” he asks into the shell of Stiles’ ear. One hand circles around, smoothing over his hip to rest protectively on Stiles’ stomach. The shaky knees deal is starting to get a little old. He’d thought the whole faint maiden thing would have worn off after this much exposure to Derek’s _everything_.  

“A recording is-,”  

“I know what a recording is. You said,” Derek hesitates. If he wasn’t coiled around him, Stiles imagines he’d have taken up that rigid stance he uses to guard himself. “You said. Whatever we -,” Derek aborts the end of his statement, but Stiles feels his lips pull into a little smile, “You realize you asked me to marry you last night.”  

An icicle of horror lodges itself in his gut.  

“Ok, hah, that, that was – whatever I said does _not_ count. I was high on wolf lovin-,” 

“Euphoria.” 

“Yes, thank you, euphoria, and therefore not responsible for my actions. Or the things I said. I couldn’t even take off my own shoes-,” 

“So you do remember.”  

Stiles squirms to be free just so he can spin around and poke Derek in the chest to get his point across, but Derek clamps down and holds him in place with little to no effort.  

“That is – not the point,” Stiles can’t help the chuckle that escapes him, “babbling doesn't count under duress-,”  

“I don’t think euphoria is the same as duress.”  

“Whatever I said, I wouldn’t have said under normal – circumstances.”  

“That’s hurtful.”  

“Well, then, maybe we should go on an _actual_ date before you legally become my property.” 

Derek snorts a laugh into his hair. “Maybe,” he agrees, and then after a moment asks, “How deep is that water?”  

“What? Wait, Derek, _no-_ ,”

Derek hoists him up under his knees and _throws_ him into the swimming hole. There is no dignity in his descent. Stiles flails through the air and crashes into the deep azure in a spectacular froth of disturbed water and thrashing limbs. He comes up sputtering, treading water, just in time to see that Derek has doffed his shirt ( _and fuck, has Derek had a tattoo this whole time?_ ) and shoes as he dives gracefully into the pool.  

He resurfaces just in front of Stiles and Stiles shoves him back under.  

The satisfaction is short-lived. Werewolf strength apparently still works even when submerged, because Derek's arms plant on his belly and vault Stiles over his head so that he’s somersaulting ass over teacups back into the lagoon.  

“Look who,” Stiles coughs, wiping his eyes when he’s able, “finally developed a sense of humor.”  

Derek’s swimming in a leisurely circle around him, “I have a sense of humor.”  

“Warped though it is,” Stiles grumbles.  

“I can have a sense of humor without constantly running my mouth.”  

Stiles squawks, mouth falling open. Before he can retort, Derek smirks and disappears under the small waves their presence has created. Stiles yelps when Derek grabs his legs and pulls them flush together so Stiles’ thighs are locked around his torso. Controlling his reaction to, _this_ , including Derek holding him just below his ass, is not a thing Stiles’ brain is equipped to do. They may be in a creek where the mess will be manageable, but coming in his pants is _not_ on the agenda. _Not today, Satan._   

“You look like you’re going to sneeze,” Derek points out. The pool is reflecting into his eyes, polishing them until their multitude of colors glimmer brighter than Stiles has ever seen before. Droplets balance on dark lashes. Derek's hair's longer than when they first met. Getting it trimmed must be low on the list of priorities. Thick tendrils curl at his temples and over the tops of his ears.  

“Do I?” Stiles says through a strained jaw. 

Doubt contorts Derek’s features, “I can -I’m sorry-,” his grip loosens, but Stiles clings to him like a gibbon.  

“Wait, no! This is fine! Totally ok with this, this is good.”  

Flush blazes over Derek’s chest and ears and he bites back a smile, “Good.” The type of man that can pull off obscenely masculine and cute as a fucking button at the same time is a rare breed. Derek is probably a member of an endangered species.  

“I’m gonna date the shit out of you Derek Hale,” Stiles says with absolute certainty, heart throbbing embarrassingly loud.  

“That sounds like a threat,” Derek chuckles as the rosy tint works its way on to his cheeks.  

“It kind of is.”  

The levity fades from his face and Derek says quietly, “The house I bought is two hours away.”  

“That’s not so bad.” 

“You’re Jeep is a piece of crap.” 

“That was my mom’s Jeep you prick, and it’s not a piece of crap. It has moxie.”  

Derek rolls his eyes, “We’ll have to leave as soon as Peter’s betas catch the conduit. It won’t take long for him to figure it out.”  

“Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to dump me before anything actually happens?”  

Derek’s eyes snap up, “I’m not.” His mouth is turned down, his brow furrowed at the thought.  

“Uh huh.”  

“I want you to understand what’s going to happen.”  

Stiles nods. His disappointment is childish. He knows it. He keeps waiting for some magical force to barrel through his life and make everything easy again; normal like it was before Scott got bitten. He’s tired of having to fight for every little thing, but that doesn’t mean he’ll stop.  

“There’s a spare bedroom,” Derek adds.  

Stiles smirks, “How presumptuous.”  

“I mean if you wanted to – to stay for a weekend, you could have your own room.”  

Stiles drops his eyes, his smirk shrinking into a shy smile, “I don’t want my own room.”  

When Derek catches his meaning he somehow manages to turn redder. More than that, Stiles feels, _holy hell_. He’d been actively trying to dissuade his half chub from getting any more noticeable, which is probably a lost cause because it's pressed _right_ into Derek's stomach, but that, nudging into the seat of his shorts is… _big_. His brain vacates for a few seconds, understandably so. Since Peter stepped in a slashed apart his life, he hasn’t exactly engaged in – _amorous relations_ of any kind. Even before then things had been set in a bit of a dry spell.  

It’s been a little over a year.   

Derek realizes what his body is doing a moment after Stiles feels it and immediately starts to apologize and separate, but Stiles again refuses to be let go of.  

“It’s fine – really,” Stiles chuckles nervously, “It happens.”  

Derek’s scowling, but Stiles gets the feeling that it’s more directed at his bodily betrayal than anything else.  

“Seriously,” laughs Stiles, “it’s… it’s nice.” He cringes as soon as it’s out of his mouth. _It’s nice? Are you fucking kidding? Hey Derek, your cock is nice, please feel free to_ erection _on me whenever the mood strikes._ "I mean, no, not – _oh my god._ It's just -," and the rest of whatever he's going to say exits as a mortified squeak.  

"It's been... a while," Derek murmurs, eyes flickering over a few indistinct points passed Stiles shoulder.  

"Me too!" Stiles tries to recover, "I mean; it's not – I'm going to stop. Stopping is good."  

"I'm not just trying to," pained, Derek looks absolutely pained and Stiles knows he's the idiot the plunged them into the awkward pit of _awkwardness_ neither of them can climb out of, "I don't," Derek shuts his eyes and forces out, "I don't want to just, have – I want...," his stare pegs Stiles, cements him in place, "you."  

… 

“Yeah,” Stiles manages, nodding. For once he can’t think of anything, “Yeah, fuck I, I want you so badly.”  

“Yeah?” Derek breathes out, relieved like he hadn’t been sure. His face is so earnest it hurts.  

“Why aren’t you kissing me?”  

“I don’t know,” Derek mutters into his mouth.  

Stiles is alive. He’s breathing and whole. Devoid of fear. He doesn’t have to make himself let go, or remember to open himself up; Derek does it for him. Derek’s kisses are tempered. He doesn’t force more than Stiles can give him, doesn’t ask for anything. His lips knead and slip against Stiles’ mouth, tugging him further down. This is everything. Everything he didn’t know he wanted so desperately. His hands can’t stay still, can’t seem to touch enough of Derek. They snare in Derek’s hair and Stiles grinds into him, hips rolling. He never quite understood what people meant when they said they could get drunk off another person, until now.  

Everything about Derek is intoxicating. His smell, his skin, the soft, shy creature underneath his anger, his fear, the part of him that wants nothing but family, pack… love. 

“You’re shaking,” Derek murmurs and catches Stiles’ bottom lip carefully in his teeth. Stiles nods helplessly. 

“Derek,” he tries, but Derek kisses his words away until Stiles cups his face in both hands and holds him at bay. Mild concern sheets his wolf like he thinks he’s done something wrong and Stiles smiles at him, “After we deal with Peter and Gaby’s safe, and it’s all over, I’m going to take you apart.” 

Derek’s blinks, and then goes scarlet-er.  

“I’m gonna open you up. I’m gonna take away all your breath and put hands on you in every way that makes you weak, makes those uncontrollable noises come out of you. I want to see you lock up, see your body arch, watch how you move when you can't take anymore.” 

“Stiles-,” 

“And then,” Stiles says, thumb tracing back and forth over the corner of his mouth, “I’m gonna take care of you. Do you understand? I’m gonna keep you safe; I’m gonna make love to you and hold you and tell you how good you are and help you when you aren’t sure and cry with you when you’re sad. We’re going to fuck and fight and love each other. We’re going to _live_.” 

Derek gapes at him for a while, breath ragged. Finally, he says brokenly, nodding, “I want that.”  

“I know you do,” Stiles smiles and drags his lips over Derek’s again because he can’t think of a time when he’ll get bored of it.  

“But…,” he’s frowning. Jesus Christ, only Derek fucking Hale could find a reason to scowl during such an intimate moment. “I – you almost died last night.” 

“But I didn’t – that’s the point-,” 

“No, Stiles, it’s – you’re still in shock.” 

“Holy shit you’ve got to be kid-,” 

“I want all those things,” Derek insists firmly, determined eyes pommeling Stiles’ retorts, “I want –,” he huffs a frustrated breath. Telling people what he wants isn’t exactly a finely tuned skill, so Stiles doesn’t interrupt no matter how badly he wants to. He waits for Derek to find the words he wants and it takes a few minutes of silence for him to get there, “I want you,” he says slowly, “but… I don’t think you should promise things like that right now.” 

“Why? Because you don’t want to hear-,” 

“I want to hear it. I want you to say things like that to me. Even if they’re unnecessarily graphic,” he offers a small smile, “But you need to – to process. Peter coming after you again isn’t something you can just brush off.” 

 _S_ _ays the king of emotional repression._  

 Stiles takes a breath. Everything he’s feeling is real. It is. He wants Derek to know just how real all of this is to him, just how clear coming so close to losing everything has made his priorities. He wants Derek. He wants his family. He wants safety. None of that is going to change anytime soon. But Derek isn’t entirely wrong. There's still too much that could go badly; so much out of his control. No matter how hard he wants to, he shouldn’t make promises to Derek, especially Derek, if he’s not certain he’ll be able to keep them.  Derek deserves that much after everything he’s gone through - is still going through.  

“Just slow down a little,” Derek adds tenderly.  

Stiles nods and kisses his forehead, “Yeah.” He trails kisses along Derek’s temple to the strong line of his jaw. “Can I kiss your neck?” he whispers against damp skin. Just because Derek seems to like pressing his face into Stiles' neck, doesn’t mean he comfortable with it himself. He’s a wolf. An alpha. An exposed throat probably goes against everything he’s instinctually wired to do.  

“Just –,” the hesitation in his voice is honey-sweet and a little flustered. It makes Stiles’ hips ache and he rubs himself against Derek’s firm stomach. The movement earns him a low groan. “Just don’t –,”  

Mouth tickling against Derek’s ear Stiles asks, “Don’t what, sweetheart?”  

“Bite,” tumbles out in shy response.  

Stiles plants soft kisses under Derek’s jaw and he goes a rigid at first; Stiles can feel the hardening in his shoulders. He runs his hands up and down Derek’s chest soothingly and whispers, “You’re perfect.” By the time his lips reach Derek’s Adam’s apple, runs his tongue over it, the stiffness has melted.  

Well.  

In his shoulders anyway.  

Derek’s hands explore his backside, tentatively; the roam over his ass, squeezing lightly, slide over the base of his spine.  

“The pack will come looking soon,” mumbles Derek.  

Stiles gets comfortable. He sprawls his arms over Derek’s shoulders and rests his head against one of them, “I want to stay a little longer.”  

A broad hand sweeps up and down Stiles’ back, he buries his face in Stiles’ hair and nods.  

 

"Stiles." 

Towel over his head, Stiles backtracks at the call of his name to find Gaby seated in Gumma's office. He'd been told Lydia and she were back here drawing the first round of blood, but Lydia's nowhere in sight. He's surprised to see her in the human shift. She's recovering from last night more quickly than he'd thought she might. Color is beginning to relight her cheeks, but it's clearer now the full toll healing him took on her.  

"Hey, what's up?" 

"Close the door," she says gingerly. He does as he's told and takes a seat in the adjacent chair, still rubbing the towel over his scalp.  

"You ok?" He asks uncertainly. She's never asked to speak to him before, or anyone.  

"I want...," she rubs her eyes. He's used to her being completely still when other people are in a room with her, her eyes observing warily. This is the most human motion she's ever made. "I wanted to ask something...." 

Her directness throws him a moment. Stiles marvels at the brass to her voice, her eyes watching him instead of looking away. "Of course," he stammers.  

"Can a wolf do magic like you?" 

"Um, not like me. There's some stuff wolves can do." He recalls the crudely drawn hamsa under Walcott's bed. Any sigil or talisman can have power if the user believes wholly that it does. "The triskele the Hales use to train younger wolves is a kind of magic." The tattoo on Derek's back he'd seen earlier is placed behind a chakra, whether or not he's aware; maybe it's not so farfetched to think it's there to stimulate control.   

Gaby shakes her head, "Not like that. Can a wolf use spark?" 

"No," Stiles tells her, "Why're you asking?" He hopes she doesn't mean she's been trying to use it. Anyone in her position might start looking for fixes in the Place Beyond the Door. 

"… Please don't tell."  

"Don't tell what?"  

"I...," Gaby folds her legs to her chest in the chair, the confidence she'd had a moment ago waning. "I saw something." 

Stiles' stomach tickles. He doesn't react so as not to spook her. If he's caught her meaning, she's talking about the Den, about what happened to her; something none of them have been able to get out of her.  

"What'd you see?" 

She eyes him, possibly still deciding if she wants to go any further. Something wins out in her mind and she says quietly, "I saw... plants. In the floor?" She's not sure herself what it was. Her brow pinches and fleetingly, she looks exactly like Derek.  

"Was this...," he doesn't want to scare her off, and tempers his tone, "at the Den?" 

She nods, "I saw Aunt Talia's office, but the floorboards were gone. There was a big hole and plants growing out of it and some in pots all over." 

"You think they were magic?"  

She shakes her head, "I don't know. It looked like... an altar." She points to the hazelwood alter tucked in the corner of Gumma's desk amid some loose papers and books and the pentagram shaped shelf housing various crystals and minerals. "Like that, kind of."  

"How good a look did you get at it? Could you describe it to Gumma?"  

She goes green, stricken suddenly and Stiles' belly plummets. Her gaze drops and she half buries her face in her knees.  

"I... got a good look."  

"Ok, good, uh," Stiles' teeth grind, his hands clenched, "I'll get Gum-," 

"No!" She says abruptly, "No, not her. Just you." Stiles stares at her, stunned, but no longer moving to stand. She trusts him more than Gumma with this information, with what happened to her in that alter room, and he's got no idea what he did to earn that trust. He's terrified he'll say the wrong thing, word vomit like he always does. He doesn't trust himself enough to counsel her the right way, so how can she?  

Biting his bottom lip in thought he asks, "Why me?"  

And she answers with a word that instills enough confidence to at least try despite his trepidation, one that explains everything, maybe even how she found him last night, how she knew he was in danger and came running even though leaving the house terrifies her, she says, "Pack." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About time.
> 
> Named the chapter 'The Kiss' for lazy butts like myself who sometimes just skipped to the hot parts. We all do it. You can lie to me but not to yourself. 
> 
> That whole scene is partly the brain child of [EloquentSavage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EloquentSavage/pseuds/EloquentSavage) who put me on the right path with the whole Stiles' graphic speech about boinkn and what not. I can't be trusted with romantic scenes because left to my own devices I use words like 'boinkn'. So thanks friend for helping me not do a stupid. 
> 
> Can you believe this shit finally happened? I was so temped to troll the shit out of the readership with another near miss, but I feel like I've hit my limit with that stuff. 
> 
> I believe we're about 3/4 of the way through; god willing and the creek don't rise. 
> 
> Stiles is pack~  
> Much yes. Good. Yes. 
> 
> MMMWHACHTA SAAAAAY


	20. Revenant

 

Grim-faced, Stiles finds Derek and asks him to get everyone together in the backyard. He hasn't been able to speak since leaving Gaby to his father's care inside. The pack, including Isaac and Scott, follow him out to just inside the tree line behind the house. Gaby told him she can't hear that far and she can't stand to hear any of what they agreed he needs to tell them.

They all stare at him, and again, for the second time today, he's got no words. They must smell his unease, because all of them, even Erica, look concerned.

"I, uh," he croaks out of a dry mouth, "I know what happened to Gaby, and I think we might be dealing with more than we thought." Light flickers in Isaac and Erica's eyes, their wolves restless enough to push against their control. "I...," he glances at Derek, recalls the way his mouth moves against his own and hopes that what he's about to say doesn't make kisses like that go away, "I don't think Peter is the one who hurt her."

Derek's eyes go metallic, his crossed arms straining visibly and Stiles can’t blame him. It's not fair how much confusion and hurt has been thrust on him. Derek's suffered a lifetime of grief, more than anyone ever should, and it's got no signs of stopping. Regardless of his rigid posture, he says nothing, and Stiles hopes that’s a good sign.

Carefully, Boyd asks amid the vacuum of silence, "What makes you think that?"

"Gaby told me about the circumstances of her rape," he says, swallowing back on bile, reliving the hollow look in her eyes as she spoke, "She told me because she was afraid Peter might be capable of something we wouldn't expect when we set the golem loose." Stiles runs a hand through his hair, "She described a fertility ritual circle. I went through some of Gum's books to be sure. That kind of thing only works if you have spark; a werewolf doing it would be pointless. And I've never met a werewolf with the know-how, let alone the recipe to even try."

"Did she say it wasn't Peter?" Derek asks harshly.

"Just because It looks like Peter, doesn't mean it is."

"You think it's that creature, don't you?" asks Isaac, head cocked to the side.

Nodding Stiles replies, "A therion is the shifter of shifters. It can turn into anything, but not just look like someone, _be_ someone."

"Why Peter?" Scott asks, "Why... why Gaby?"

Stiles looks to Derek because he's smart enough, has enough insight, to have figured that part out on his own.

Green with revulsion Derek answers, "If it is a therion and it was – trying to breed her, there's a high chance her young would be born First Wolves as well."

Isaac, around frustrated breath, asks, "What's so important about First Wolves?"

"She's a healer." The answer comes not from Stiles or Derek, but from Erica. She's staring at the ground, grimace set into her soft face.

"How did you...," Stiles trails off.

Erica crosses her arms tighter. When she looks at them, her eyes are glossy, brimming tears that don't fall, and she says, "That thing that hurt her, whatever it is, it might be a monster, but that doesn't mean you have to be supernatural to be capable of something like that," her fingers card through her golden hair, "I was hospitalized because someone decided what they wanted meant more than my humanity. He told me it was my fault I had C cups in sixth grade. He took away my ability to have children. The bite couldn't make it right because the wounds had already healed. I told Gaby that I want a baby, but can't have one and she tried to help."

There are all silent as they soak in her words. Stiles can't stop looking at her and she stares right back. The rest of them must have already known. They're pack. They know each other better than they know themselves. Something so personal, so horrible, she wouldn't tell him if she didn't think of him....

Stiles starts to cry, and he's not even sure why at first. There's no heaving, no loud sobs, just a tight throat and hot tears on his cheeks. So much time fearing wolves. Hating them. Hating himself. Thinking how cruel the universe is, that there is no justice, no karma, that all things transpire for no reason at all. Maybe it is all still random and he's not ready to surrender to a higher power just yet, but somehow, even though he's scared and unsure, he's come out the other side having been adopted by his own wolf pack.

It's not just Derek that makes him feel safe; it's all of them.

He feels the pack bond, then, feels the strap of it tethered around his heart. It had been there, brittle at first, for a long time. His immediate instinct in the sight of danger is to throw himself in front of it to protect any of them. Stiles can feel them all, their energy burning like stars. At the center of them, is their alpha and he is hit with a sensation that, though alien, he immediately comprehends. Derek is not just his alpha. Hand clutching his chest even though he does not recall moving, his gaze goes from Erica to Derek.

His spark unfurls like a red flower of energy; they all sense it, especially Derek. The feeling is crimson, crackling with power. Stiles allows it to flow through him and into them, but does not try to wield it. The pack bond closes him in, amplifying his potential force, but it’s too much, enough to kill him should he try to control it. The rest of the pack soaks in it, all of them perfectly still as it swells, adding to their collective strength. The moment is peaceful, warm tides of energy ebbing and flowing between them, the forest itself breathing in the excess.

Stiles’ eyes closed at some point, reducing him, and likely all of them, into a meditative state as they become accustomed to the new sensation. He finds that he can guide them through it without speaking; that none of them should try to touch it just yet, only allow it to channel through them. Time becomes irrelevant in the new plain of their connection. Stiles can feel the reach of their territory and how it clashes and tangles into parts of Peter’s, how the muddied border turns his stomach.

Weaker cords tie in Gaby. He can feel her in the house; the small, waning light of her spirit. It refuses to go out even though it is weak, shivering like a candle in a gale. But she’s stronger now. Stronger with Stiles and Scott in her pack, all of them feeding her the courage she needs to endure.

Stiles helps them to bath in each other. He falls into his role, a tradition in wolf packs dating back thousands of years, of emissary without needing to be told. The emissary is not only a bridge to the human world but the spiritual, though from what Gumma has told him, it was a very long time ago that wolf packs maintained fully fledged spark emissaries. All of that power, the power Stiles shepherds at this moment, often proved too much of a temptation for some. He understands better the bloodshed now; the allure of what rituals could be accomplished with so much energy to harvest. Stiles won’t pretend he’s immune to the draw of it.

For now, he observes it from outside of himself. His curiosity can wait. Trembling catches his attention. Like a plucked string of spider’s web, the reverberation goes through the pack, dispelling their trance-like state. The connection shatters. Blinking rapidly, Stiles tries to focus back in on the forest. They had been radiating so much energy that new green shoots and buds and mosses creep along the ground, wrapping the feet of the trees in second spring. The sight mixes pride into the confusion mixing Stiles’ emotions.

Derek’s on the ground, spasming violently, but the information takes longer than it should to wipe away the serene residue of their bonding and splinter him into motion. Erica shakes her head to clear the lofty feeling away while garbling Derek’s name.

In the next couple of minutes, hell spills over.

He reaches for Derek, only to understand what’s happening to him at the last moment and jerk back out of the way of snapping jaws. A _massive_ black wolf shreds Derek’s clothing, writhing in the place he was doubled-over seconds ago.

Stiles is paralyzed. He can’t fucking move. He can’t. The wolf scrambles to all fours, almost as big as Gaby, but not docile, not friendly. It’s drooling foamy spit over pearly fangs, eyes smoldering red and fixed on Stiles. Stiles hears yelling, senses the pack around them but the whole patch of forest seems to be moving like they’re trapped in amber and the black wolf is coiling to spring. Muscles ripple under a sheet of ebony, and Stiles pisses himself, he feels the hot spread in his underwear and the tears on his cheeks and bile in his throat.

For a fleeting second, he thinks he hears his dad and a warbled sob claws out of him; this must be a nightmare, this can’t be real. A monster’s taken over Derek and it’s going to kill him.

Time catches up jarringly in a split second of colliding bodies and snarling the like of which Stiles has never heard before. A moon-colored wolf appears from nothing, from thin air and slams into Derek, sending them both careening into the rushes. Stiles is thrown to the ground and instinctually balls himself up. Wolf heat sears the air around him and when he dares to crack open his lids he finds Scott on all fours above him, beta-shifted and growling. Fear racks himself again for longer than it should, as two enormous predators shake the woods with their brawl, filling the air with vicious sounds and cries. But Scott. Scott’s not hurting him. Scott would never hurt him. Protecting – Scott’s shielding him, leaped on him before Derek could.

Why isn’t he waking up? He must be screaming in his sleep and no one is coming to wake him.

Isaac’s shifted to his left and grappling with Boyd? He’s feral, eyes not glowing so much a flaming. They tear at each other, clothing torn to ribbons, until Boyd manages to plant a claw on Isaac’s chest and vault him twenty feet back, out of the trees toward the house. He pursues as soon as Isaac’s airborne to keep him from entering the fray. 

The silver wolf.

 _Gaby._ She’d run out of the house when she felt something was wrong, gotten Derek away from Stiles, away from the pack and her scent must be everywhere. From the look on Isaac’s face, he might not even be sure what he intended to do once he got to her. The end result must have worked out in Boyd’s mind right when Isaac shifted. An inexperienced pack member getting between their alpha and First Wolf meant death.

Erica’s nowhere. Maybe she dove into the brush after them?

Stiles claps his hand around his ears because he can’t fucking listen to it anymore, he’s going to explode.

“Scott!” cries his father’s voice, “Get out!”

The ground goes out from under Stiles when Scott deadlifts him, and they’re moving, the sound of the horror in the woods fading with each sprint. Gumma’s waiting and ushers them in quickly, directing Scott to the couch to lay Stiles down and that’s the last Stiles can comprehend. He can’t breathe, his brain is rending apart, it must be dripping out of his ears. His grandmother keeps trying to get him to count, but he’s so far beyond counting they may as well have had a twisting sea between them.

“Stiles! Stiles!” Scott shouts, trying to still his thrashing limbs, but his voice is muted.

The lack of oxygen hits that point Stiles’ doctors warned him about and the stupid, dormant little fear of asphyxiation pushes his anxiety too far.

One moment he’s a cut power line thrashing in the street and the next, there’s nothing. Blackness.

 

**_Part I_ **

For millennia, it has stalked the wilds. Before mortals. Before the children of the forest, and of the moon. It has passed through ages shedding skins. Devouring and replacing, constantly in the throes of ether. It has no gender. No species. Only desires. A series of ever-changing wants as ephemeral and chaotic as the Mother.

As its identity slips through shadows and light, the Mother, the Goddess, remains its only given. It strives to be her, as imperfect and primitive as She.

It has heard the names it is given. They have poured off every tongue until never being spoken again. It watched keenly as the knowledge of those names fell into legend and then deeper into nothing. It continued to roam the Land in search of more, spiriting away mortals and shifters, undisturbed until it lost interest and slept.

 

When it woke in the new era of humans, it had stood on the edge of their electric borders and began to drool. So much change.

So much _more_.

 

It studied, walked in the roads of the mortals, spoke the new language with those living in the little hamlet. It learned of gleaming cities brimming with more humans than It could have ever have imagined possible, and of what became of the dwindling forests and the once un-spoiled seas. It became enthralled by the appetite of these descendants of mud dwellers. Their vanity, their need to consume. How they destroyed their earth unrepentantly while singing tales of its beauty.

The little town was bleeding intrigue, but those within it did not or could not take notice.

Finally, it found the perfect creature. A shaky, well-fed little creature too selfish to see beyond its own self-preservation. It watched the creature, one that was wolf-kind, a spirit it had not sampled in countless winters, and when the moment presented itself, it fished a shape from its past to the surface. A she-wolf, pretty and ripe with breeding scent. It absorbed her personality, all it could recall of her, even her name. When it took its first step in the new form, it was no longer it, but she.

The she-wolf had been a great beauty, or so many said. Such things meant little to an eternal being, but she understood why temporary creatures would value it. With such short time to fuck and rear offspring, beauty must have been very important.

She scent marked the boundaries of the portly wolf’s den, a modest cottage on the edge of a larger pack territory. He took notice of her swiftly, within in the space of an afternoon. As she knew he would not, he did not call on the others to investigate. Gamma wolves rarely mated in the days of old. From what she remembered, their station was that of caregiver and little more.

And he did not question her appearance here. Wolves were once violently territorial, but the luxuries this modern age seemed to have softened them.

When he’d followed the scent trail she’d left him, he had tried to speak to her; ask her if she was lost and for her name. All the while the pale worm between his legs thickening at the sight of her naked skin. She wondered as he prattled on, what he would try to do to her. She had seen more brutal times then he could comprehend, seen his ancestors feast on each other in the void of power. They were ethereally dazzling and formidable, taking what they wanted when they wanted just as the first of her kind had taught them at the dawn of their creation. And now they were reduced to this.

A sniveling beast trying to distract attention away from his fat little cock.

She forced him to the ground with a single shove. He’d made no claws or fangs, simply sat there in the dirt, bewildered. Crouching, hand to his throat – and not even in the strangling of her fingers was not enough to frighten him or even pull his eyes from her breasts – she said, “I have known your pack.”

He squirmed uncomfortably, sputtering some thin response that she ignored and tore away his trousers with a brace of claws. His cock dribbled, growing still harder in her presence, her scent overwhelming his fear. She mounted him, taking the stout girth inside of her abruptly causing his eyes to roll back in his skull.

“You think you would breed me?” she asked rocking back and forth, rolling her hips and reveling in the sensation of fucking, one she had not known in a very long time. He croaked something, doughy hands clutching at her thighs and ass, trying to thrust himself harder into her and she crushed his windpipe. When his hands went to his throat, she loosened the hold and allowed him to breathe.

He seemed to like this, like being told what to do like a good gamma. She released his throat and let him sit up. Once he realized he could do so, he groped her breasts, pressed his face into them, pushed her on to her back and began to hump her like the repressed diminutive animal he was. Short, selfish little thrusts, hands pressing her thighs apart, his pre-cum dribbling out of her sex.

She did not orgasm, as she knew she would not; she merely watched his face turn scarlet, sweat crying down a bald scalp, his breath coming in short gasps until he climaxed. Perhaps living out some fantasy, he pulled out as he came and milked himself on to her belly.

Before his exhausted body had the chance to fall she gripped his throat again. He let out a chuckle and comically told her, “I’ll need a while ‘fore I can go again, honey.” Her claws extended and she held them to his genitals. This seemed to get his attention.

“No, child,” she said, “I had wondered what you would do. Wondered if you would take up the ruthless mantle of the Walcott Wolves before you.”

“What?” he choked.

Her jaw unhinged, falling open long enough to devour him and he screamed. He pleaded for his life, spouted off everything she had heard bleated unendingly until… she stopped. She regarded him.

“What was that?” she asked curiously.

The trembling Walcott gamma swallowed and repeated himself.

 

**_Part II_ **

Peter Hale smashed Ashby's head into the table. It was an expensive table; an heirloom salvaged by his family during the flight from Ireland. Ashby’s repugnant skull was going to leave a dent and yet Peter had felt no remorse. Ashby slumped to the floor blubbering _something._ Whatever he was muttering better have been fucking important because they were likely to be the last goddamn ramblings to fall out of that flapping maw.

“Vera,” Peter said, going to the wet bar, “Send out a runner and everyone who can be spared. Find Katherine. Bring her back here. Now.”

Vera nodded and slunk from the room. She was a creepy fucker, but she was a good second. The left hand of the left hand, _Talia would have been so proud_. Peter threw together a whiskey rocks that was, by far, more whiskey than rocks and turned on Ashby.

“Don’t think, _cousin_ ,” he spat the word like it ailed him and it did, “that I don’t know why you came here. If I find a scratch on my sister or my niece, you are a _dead man_ , and if I don’t find them at all,” Peter shivered with rage, and not for effect, he genuinely could not suppress the boiling anger turning his insides to fire, “you cannot even _imagine_ what I will do to you.”

“Peter, please,” snuffled Ashby, “please, she was going to kill me-,”

It took all of Peter’s considerable self-composure not to tackle Ashby to the ground and rip his throat out. This was why Laura had been next in line. She, like Talia, could handle shit-storms like this with a clear head.

“ _Then you should have died,”_ he hissed, “The only reason you came to me is because you knew the moment I figured out it was you who was responsible for this, I would have ripped you to pieces.”

“She’s-she’s some kind of monster, please, it was the only-,”

“YOU ARE SOME KIND OF MONSTER,” roared Peter, throwing his tumbler to the floor. Breathing hard, he put a hand through his hair. He needed to do something, couldn’t wait for his betas to go looking for the McNamaras when it was probably too late.

“Peter, you don’t understand,” whimpered Ashby, cowering under the old table, “I’ve never, you’ve never seen something like her before. She was more than a wolf, more powerful, faster, she just – she vanished into nothing, like, like a ghost.”

That stopped Peter’s pacing. He stared at his cousin, “You’d better not be fucking with me, because if you are I will rip your balls off and feed them to you.”

“…What?”

Rolling his eyes, Peter went to the far corner of the library. This was not his original home, but he’d recreated it to such detail, replaced every burned book that it was as if the Argents had never happened. It was the first and last attempt at sentimentality he would ever commit. Even he knew it was weird, but grief did weird shit to people, even Peter Hale. That aside, the library had been his favorite room as a child, one where his sisters left him alone and he’d read his way through every book several times through the years. Ever the practical child, he had insisted on copying the older texts, ones handwritten by his ancestors should anything happen.

In his darker moments, he’d wondered if his practicality was what brought ruin to his family.

He found a copy of one of the old journals and thumbed through it.

“You know what it is?” asked Ashby.

Not taking his eyes from the pages he replied, “I know everything.” For many quiet minutes, he skimmed the pages until finding the passages that were already dimly lit in his memory. Seeing them again rekindled the knowledge he’d left to collect dust.

He pulled out his phone and dialed. No response. He called the number three more times before growling and shoving the phone into his pocket.

“Ashby, _do not_ leave this house, do you understand?” Peter snapped, tucking the book under his arm.

“But, please, it’ll be looking for me I have to run-,”

Peter turned on his heel, “If this thing is what I think it is, there is nowhere for you to hide. If you try to run it will kill you, especially if it knows you talked to me.” His hands ball into fists, “You’ve fucked all of us by coming here at all.”

“W-wait, I should, then shouldn’t I come too?”

“You betrayed my blood. _Our blood_. If you are with me even a minute more I will gut you like a trout, but at the moment you are worth more to me alive than dead. When Vera gets back tell her I went to go see Krysia.”

 

Peter probably should have checked Google for operating hours, or something, because the Bazaar storefront was dark by the time he parked. Though, he wasn’t sure if one could find Hollow Downs on Google Maps, let alone the little town’s favorite oddities shop. He could still hear someone shuffling around inside when he stepped from his car and decided to wait, his only company a powder blue Jeep. Peter kicked a pebble at it, because Lord, it was the ugliest damn thing he’d seen today.

After about twenty minutes a skinny kid with green stripes in the front of his hair shuffled out of the double doors, balancing a box smelling strongly of varied herbs in one arm. Krysia’s grandson no doubt. Peter had seen him once or twice when he was still a toddler; constantly screaming and grabbing at anything that came near enough. He still had the wobbly, awkward gait of a baby, just on longer legs.

Peter started towards him, huffing a breath when a scent caught his nose and his stomach flipped inside him. No. Peter broke into a run because he was right, he fucking knew he had been and that twat Ashby Walcott had led the fucking thing right to him, to his pack, and he knew at that moment the McNamaras were lost. Katherine, Gabriella, they were gone, eaten by this _thing_.

If his pack still stood, his only hope of protecting them now was getting to that bumbling dipshit across the lot and praying he had enough know-how to destroy a therion on the spot.

Somehow, he really doubted Stiles Stilinski had even a thimble of the kind of power he’d seen Krysia wield when he and Katy and Talia were kids. At this point, he really had no other option.

Peter opened his mouth to scream when a sudden force thrust his body forward, but more than that, it thrust his consciousness from his mind.  

 

Stiles jumped at the sound of thudding feet to find he was not alone outside the store. He finished turning the key in the Bazaar’s lock and cautiously approached the man stood under the nearest lamp. Squinting, Stiles called out, “Mr. Hale? That you?”

Peter staring at his fingers as they rubbed together, totally transfixed by the feeling from what Stiles could see.

He must have been rolling _hard_.

Could wolves even get high? Because judging by the doped look on Peter’s face they absolutely fucking could. His interactions with Peter had always been fairly limited. Gumma dealt with him every so often when she consulted with Dr. Deaton. He always looked so... formal? Adulty? He’d sass someone occasionally, but that was about as familiar as Peter got with anyone. Seeing him a tab deep explained so much.

“Dude, you ok?” Stiles asked, trying not to get too close in case… he LSD wolfed out?

Peter was silent for a while like he hadn’t heard anything Stiles said, and then, “Yes,” he met Stiles’ gaze and smile softly, “Yes, I’m fine. Goodnight.”

He turned and bled away into the darkness of the lot, leaving Stiles to mutter, “What the fuck?”

 

Becoming Alpha Hale was a rush like nothing it had felt in an age. The raw power of a pack leader throbbing in its tangle of spiritus, threatening to cleave it in two. It galloped through darkness and swamp to blazing electric light and pavement. The alpha shift came quickly, bubbling up out of its control, but it had no need for control; only the wildness of the Mother.

The beast form was ecstasy.

It saw the boys a little after the moon’s highest rise of the night. Smelled their sweetness, their flesh and blood forcing its gums to ache and teeth to shiver.

It leaped.

Fangs sank into skin, blood pooled, and the boy screamed as it whipped him back and forth until losing its grip and flinging him. It stalked him, ready to feast, to absorb – the second boy appeared in its path, yelling at it, waving a baseball bat. It chuckled, the noise becoming a wispy growl.

It charged the child.

 

**Part III**

It almost killed Peter. The margin which kept him sane was a by a razor’s breadth. The things the demon possessing his body did to his pack, to Gabriella – he wished for death. It kept him conscious through all of it. There was never a time when he did not see and hear and feel and smell all that the therion did. But he was only a passenger, as helpless as any other of the creature’s victims.

He didn’t know when he chose to fight. He wasn’t even a person anymore. All that remained of his spirit was a revenant. He tested the therion’s hold for months maybe. Maybe years.

He would gain control for seconds at a time without the creature’s knowing. Twitch his fingers or toes and weep in the prison of his mind at these small accomplishments. If he could control a finger than perhaps it was not impossible to control a wrist, an arm, a shoulder. He practiced while the therion slept, only when he was certain that its subconscious was active with dreaming. He could tell very little about his body's warden but knowing when it had succumbed to sleep was water to a man stranded in the desert.

When the time came, he rose.

There was no happiness, no celebration, only a draining hourglass.

He freed his niece, told her to find Krysia Stilinski, to stay in the shift until she did. She sprinted into the night, more corpse the wolf.

He found a phone. He called for Derek’s help. He wished he could have said more, but he didn’t have the time. Derek was a smart kid. He told Derek what he told Gaby, told him never to repeat it to anyone, not even himself.

“Find the Stilinskis. Keep them close. They will know what to do.”

The therion woke just as he hung up; his purpose complete, his life finally disposable. The creature separated from him and took his shape. Its grotesque jaw unhinged as it screamed.

Peter closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah it returns. 
> 
> A thing I just realize, really just now, is that the sheriff's real life name is Linden Ashby and now I feel like a dick for naming the worst character in this thing Ashby Walcott. 
> 
> Any who, if not totally clear because of, idk, poor writing, the three sub-chapters at the end are from the therion's point of view. Man. That thing is a real a-hole. That part was fun. I dunno if it translates, but the point of the therion is that it's not good or bad, really. It just is. It certainly does evil things, don't get me wrong, but I wanted it to be bigger than random baddie of the month. 
> 
> And who coulda seen that twist coming, huh? 
> 
> Everyone. The answer is everyone. Probably. 
> 
> Congrats to Derek on derping into an uncontrollable true shift? GABY GON FUCK HIS SHIT UP. Maybe. We shall have to wait and see. 
> 
> By the way I'm currently taking sketch requests on tumblr [here](http://bandaran.tumblr.com/), so if there any fanart you want, just hit up the ask or chat. Doesn't have to be Stay or Sterek related if you want something new.
> 
> Have a lovely weekend doods.


	21. True Shift

Stiles sleeps for a long time. When he does wake up and the event replays in his thoughts without any signs of slowing, he finds Nyquil in his medicine cabinet and stares at the label.

His father hears him rustling around and calls up the stairs, “You up kid?” His voice is timid. Stiles hates that voice. It's the one his dad used for months after Peter… was it even Peter? Stiles takes several swigs of the bitter liquid and crawls back into bed.

 

Scott’s there when he wakes up over the next few days. Sometimes with food. He doesn’t question anything; he doesn’t ask how Stiles feels. He already knows. They’ve done this before.

 

He dreads going downstairs because he knows they’re all still here. The pack bond hasn’t broken. He can feel them moving close by. It’s the strength of the bond that makes up his mind for him. Scott descends ahead of him like a shield.

Gumma’s cooking fills the air and he knows it’s all of his favorites. The pack is seated around the dining table looking about as grim as they should. There are two notable absences.

Stiles takes a seat between Scott and Boyd. Wolves may not scar physically, but Stiles has enough experiences with scars to know that the worst ones aren’t on the skin. Erica and Gaby are beaten, and though he’s skilled at hiding it, Boyd’s no better.

Stiles looks to John like he usually does when he’s unsure and asks, “What happened?” He hasn’t heard his own voice in so long, hearing it now furrows his brow.

Before John gets a chance, Boyd says with a frustrated huff, “Gumma warned him this could happen.”

They all gawk at him. Stiles guesses this is the most he’s said since the incident as well.

Gumma lights her cigar and massages the bridge of her nose, “I tell him what he already knew.”

“He knew he’d lose control?” asks Scott.

“Of course he did,” answers Erica, “That’s what martyrs do.”  

Gaby, twisting a leaf of paper towel says to Stiles, “The bond overwhelmed him.” And Gumma nods in agreement.

The old lady says, “Secret of true shift is a complete loss of control. Many wolves think they are controlling beta shift when they learn their discipline. True shift is what happens when human self fades to nothing.”

Erica blinks tiredly, “Not every wolf can do it.”

Gumma shakes her head, “Every wolf can. It became practice many centuries ago when alphas stopped allowing total regression. Is why it is crime to bite a mortal and abandon it.”

“It’s dangerous,” peeps Gaby. Stiles hadn’t quite noticed before, what with her rare speech, but Gaby’s drawl is much more drawn than the rest of them, so much so it’s nearly French. Gumma nods at her to continue.

It takes a moment, but she does, “It takes years to master the True Shift. It’s even dangerous for a First Wolf to learn,” clearly she’s not comfortable referring to herself as a First Wolf around others, but presses on, “It’s too easy to give in. Some wolves that try get stuck. They never find their way back. Once they’re lost they… walk the wood.” She struggles with the last part. All but Stiles and Scott nod a bit, finding recognition in the saying. It’s not difficult to parse its meaning.

“Derek’s lost?” Stiles croaks, throat knotting.

“No,” says Gaby, “not yet. But he’s slipping.”

Stiles nods stiffly and concentrates on the macramé tablecloth, “Why’d he…?” He feels so stupid. So fucking pathetic. He hates acting like this, like he’s only one with a reason to be upset, to shut everyone out for days.

“You force his change by charging pack bond,” Gumma says gently.

John tacks on, “There’s no way any of us, or you, could have known what was going to happen. I doubt Derek did either.”

“He tried to attack you because he was an animal,” says Gaby, “The shift only happens when someone’s too distressed to exist as a human. He regressed and since you were radiating the energy, since you forced the change, you became a threat. You… you have to learn how to understand human things all over again when you’re True Shifted. He didn’t recognize you or me or anybody. He didn’t know words. He only knew that the wolf came out to protect him from all the energy and he was scared.”

“Where is he?” Stiles asks blankly.

“I tranked him,” John tells him, “Gaby managed to run him off and me and Chris tracked him down, shot him full of enough tranquilizer to kill an elephant and a half and brought him to the kennels by the station. Isaac’s there, keeping him sedated.”

“Isaac’s nearly out of wolfsbane,” Erica says, “He texted earlier.”

Gumma sighs and flicks her cigar, “My stores are empty.”

“I’ll give Baptiste a shout,” replies Jon.

“How do we bring Derek back?” Scott asks. Stiles knows he probably should have asked it immediately, he just… he can’t talk. Every time he blinks the image of the deranged look on the black wolf’s face is there, waiting.

“It’s up to him,” says Gaby, “In my family, we would meditate from the time we could walk, long before our first moon, about the journey. Once the True Shift comes, _you_ can only pull yourself out, you have to find your path.”

“Were you scared?” spills out of Stiles, but he’s still staring at the tablecloth.

Gaby pauses, maybe because no ever asked her before, and says, “Yes. I hated it. Every time the full moon rose, I was scared. It… it can be a death sentence. If you can’t change back, if you stay a wolf forever, not only is your mortal spirit gone, but your lifespan shortens to a real wolf’s.”

Erica asks darkly, “Did it happen to anyone you knew?”

“Yeah,” Gaby affirms, “My cousin Serena walks the wood. I think she’s gone now. I used to see her around the forest. Brown fur; her muzzle was peppery. By the time I realized I hadn’t seen her in a long time, it was too late to say goodbye. Mama said she must have found a new pack. That’s what they told all the kids.

‘Grandpa says there’s no shame in becoming the wolf and that we shouldn’t be sad when people take the path; they’re just following their spirit. We all have to follow our spirit.” Her cheeks are wet with tears by the time Stiles looks up. Erica wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her into her side.

Stile bolts upright from his chair so forcefully it topples, fists shaking with – with _rage_.

“I don’t give a _goddamn_ about what his spirit tells him to do,” he shouts, sending a jump through all of them. He storms to and out of the front door, Scott scrambling after him.

“Dude! What are you doing?!”

Stiles pats down his body only to realize he’s still in sweatpants and a t-shirt, neither of which have his keys.

Seeing the motion, Scott’s mouth crooks into a lopsided grin. He fishes a set out of his pocket and tosses them to Stiles. Keys to the Camero.

The door unlocks with a click.

He’s done being afraid. He’s failed Derek by crumbling, by giving in to the shadows of his doubt. He won’t fail again. He won’t cower. He won’t lock himself away or let trauma continue to run rampant, because he’s so much stronger than that. He just needed a push to see it.

He slams the car into gear and it spits gravel as he and Scott tear out on to the road.

“Derek’s gonna be so pissed,” Scott chuckles. Stiles grunts and runs a red light, kicking up a clamor of horns in the intersection.

“What’s your plan?” Scott asks.

Stiles can’t talk right now. He’s too focused, mind racing. It’s not much of a plan. If Derek’s not lost, it’s probably because he’s drugged, but that means he can’t will himself out either.  He’s gotta get the tranquilizer out of Derek’s system. Baptiste’s family grows wolfbane somewhere west of town; he’s never said where. All Stiles knows is that it’s in a mountain ash forest, warded as fuck and hard to get to. The whole plot of land is used to cultivate the kind of herbs it would be unethical for any one person, clan or pack to have access to. The pack and his dad _have_ to go through Baptiste to get it and that’ll slow them down enough to cleanse Derek.

 

 

They skid to a stop outside the K-9 unit a couple miles outside of town. John must have called in for maintenance, or given some other excuse because the lot is empty save for a Range Rover that belongs to Stiles’ favorite person. Chris Argent comes trotting out of the station when he sees the headlights.

“Stiles, you need to go ho-,” Stiles snaps his fingers like the crack of a whip and the words die in Chris’s mouth. Spark flickering up and down his arm, raising every hair on his body, Stiles’ palm flattens inches from Chris’s slack face. The hunter’s eyes glaze as they follow the subtle roll of Stiles’ fingers.

“Sleep.”

Chris collapses, all the tension immediately draining from his limbs.

“Holy shit dude!” Scott chirps excitedly.

“Get Isaac,” Stiles whispers so as to not disturb the current of clarity needed to work spark of this magnitude. Scott bounds ahead up to the station and Stiles follows gently. The pack is amplifying his ability; forcing someone as strong-willed as Chris to sleep is not something he could have ever successfully accomplished on his own. 

By the time he reaches the dog pens Scott has Isaac pinned to the ground, one hand firmly on the back of his neck, demanding submissiveness.  Spitting and growling beneath him, Isaac thrashes madly trying to get free and fails under the strength of a higher pack mate.

A black furry mass lays against the chain links of the closest kennel. Padding toward it, feet cold on the concrete, Stiles closes his eyes. In his mind, he sees the IV taped to the wolf’s paw. He brings one hand to his nose, palm flat, horizontally bisecting his face. His free hand makes a blade and slashes the air. The tube falls into two pieces; one still buried in the wolf’s flesh, the other swinging freely, dribbling fluid.

Stiles paces before the enclosure. He’s not sure how long it will take for the wolf to wake up. It’s too risky to speed up the process with spark; not without knowing what effect it might have on the alpha spirit.

“You’re gonna kill him!” spits Isaac.

“He’ll be lost one way or another,” Stiles growls back, still focused on the steady breathing of the animal.

“You _not his mate – arggh – his mate wouldn’t do this!_ ”

Scott jerks his hold on Isaac in order to carry the weight of his next words, they slide through beta fangs, “ _The alpha’s mate does whatever’s necessary_.”

Stiles takes his eyes off the wolf just long enough to trade a glance with Scott. Yes. Whatever is necessary. Maybe Stiles is more wolf than he could have ever believed even a couple of hours ago. He will do what he has to for the greater good of the pack. A pack without an alpha isn’t a pack at all.

A loud huff of breath draws him back.

The black wolf tries to push itself up, its legs wobbling.

“Hey!” Stiles shouts.

It lumbers to stand, ears flicking. Eyes like gems find Stiles through the fast fading haze of the sedative. Stile undoes the latch on the cage, no tremor in his hands, no doubt in his mind. The door swings open with an irritating squeal.

The wolf regards him hazily. With each passing second Stiles can see the intelligence building in its gaze. All it sees is an escape and Stiles blocking its way.

Stiles sucks in breath and, “Ok, listen to me asshole!” The wolf fur bristles. He knows it’s the aggressive tone that the wolf is reading, but he secretly hopes that the magic word that unlocks Derek’s humanity of the prison of his primal nature is ‘asshole’.  “You are being such a fucking drama queen right now! EVERYONE HAS PROBLEMS. You’re in this fucking mess because you somehow convinced yourself you’re wolf-Christ and the only solution to your case of the sads is to sacrifice yourself! Isaac thinks I’m selfish?! LOOK AT YOU. YOU HAVE A FAMILY THAT NEEDS YOU, LOVES YOU, AND TRUST ME BIG GUY, NOBODY LOVES YOU MORE THAN ME, AND YOUR JUST GONNA THROW IT AWAY BECAUSE IT’S HARD?!”

The wolf’s growl shakes the room as it steps forward, but Stiles is there, snarling, advancing into the cage yelling, “ _I’M NOT DONE_!” The rumble never leaves the wolf’s chest. It alternates in pitch, but the beast doesn’t move on him; it remains defensively hunched and nothing more.

“You don’t get to come into my life and give me everything I ever needed and then just take it away. _I won’t let you_. I don’t care what the wolf is telling you, or what path it thinks you have to take or whatever the fuck other mystical shit is happening in your brain. Whatever it is we can fix it, I can help you, but YOU AREN’T LEAVING!” Chest heaving, eyes stinging with tears, Stiles drops to his knees and says angrily, “You have to _stay. You have to stay here with me.”_

There’s nothing human registering in the glowing red eyes before him. Stiles pushes out a heavy breath. Tears fall freely. He realizes he could walk out of this place. That despite his words, he doesn’t need Derek, but why would he want to exist where Derek doesn’t? Running fingers through his hair, Stiles amends his statement, staring the wolf down, “I want you to stay.”

The black wolf backs to the wall, spitting and barking out its roar.

“STILES GET AWAY FROM THERE!” cries his father. Distantly, Stiles hears the feet pounding over the cement. John stops at the enclosure’s entrance when his proximity tears another angry cry out of the wolf.

“Sheriff, don’t!” shouts Scott.

“Son, please,” breathes Stiles’ dad, “come to me. You can’t save him like this.”

Stiles blinks, still looking on the mass of oil slick fur and white fangs. John’s right. He can’t save Derek by yelling at him. His wolf doesn’t know words.

He stands, swallows.

“You don’t understand me,” he says to the wolf, and it growls, drool dribbling from its maw.

“He doesn’t Stiles, he’s not human,” pleads his father.

_"I'm not going to let anything happen," Derek tells him, and Stiles meets his gaze and hates how tethering it is. How it holds him down, keeps him from blowing away. A wolf shouldn't be able to look at him like that._

Stiles walks to the wolf, undeterred by its agitation. He’s afraid, so fucking afraid, but it doesn’t rule him anymore. Derek promised to keep him safe and Stiles trusts that he has to. He shuts his eyes and throws his arms around the wolf as it lunges —

 

Stiles is yanked to the floor, his knees bouncing painfully off it. He’s pulled in tight to a chest, mortal flesh and bone, to his immense fucking relief, because really? He’d only been about seventy percent on his gamble, which when within thrashing distance of a wild animal twice one’s size is not the ideal number one would like to arrive at. The sour musky scent of the wolf is still on Derek’s skin. He’s breathing fast under Stiles, arms a crushing brace on Stiles’ middle.

“Holy sh-shit,” Stiles squawks, adrenaline pound in his ears.

“I’m sorry,” Derek whimpers into his neck, “I’m, I’m so sorry-,”

Stiles gets hold of his face, cups it in both hands. Derek’s eyes are red and liquid with tears, his whole body shaking like a leaf. Smiling weakly, Stiles says, “I know I used some choice words back there, but it was mostly just to get you outta the woods. It’s ok. Really, you’re ok.”

“St-ay,” Derek chokes out, hands balling in Stiles t-shirt, his head butting into his clavicle.

“Yeah, babe, I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Baptiste is not pleased to hear that the Stilinski-Hale pack is no longer in need of wolfsbane. Stiles is putting together a meat sandwich for his bed-resting-wolfman when he overhears Baptiste getting spicy with his dad on the phone. It lands somewhere between ‘Stop waste’n my got-damn time on ‘yo wolf fuckery’ and ‘My highly fashionable ass half way up through a damn swamp and you hoes is pay’n for what you ordered’.

John apologizes again, agrees to buy whatever Baptiste brings back and hangs up. He collapses in one of the stools at the counter, rubbing his temples.

Stiles starts, “… I feel a little responsible for-,”

“Kid, you already know that you’re pulling extra shifts at the Bazaar and that whatever ungodly price BT decides to charge us is coming out of your wages.”

“That’s fair,” Stiles chuckles. John does not mirror his bright mood. He’s haggard and Stiles can’t exactly blame him. But he also can’t help the feeling he’s had since bringing Derek back the day before. There have been some makeouts and lowkey grinding sessions in the last twelve hours that he’s not exactly proud of, especially when everyone around him is so shaken by the experience.

Stiles chews on his lip as he layers roast beef and turkey on to the cartoonishly high sammie on the plate before him.

“Me, uh, running out of here yesterday… was bad.”

“Yeah, you’re goddamn right it was bad,” John snaps, “What was I supposed to do if Derek had killed you? Did you even stop and think about what that did to me? Or your grandmother?”

Stiles’ hands still. He meets his father’s gaze and shakes his head. It’s true. He hadn’t had them in his mind at all. He’d almost crashed the Camaro speeding through more than one intersection. It was scary to think about the drive that had consumed him the minute he’d stood up from the table. Worst of all, he didn’t feel remorse over any of his actions. He’d have done all of it again if it meant saving Derek.

It’s not a line he’d ever had to cross before, one he didn’t even know existed. In his case, it had been extreme, life-threatening, but he knows that there may very well come a time where he has to choose between the needs of his family over the needs of his ma – boyfriend. Yeah, probably better to leave the mate stuff alone for a while. It’s just a little too teen paranormal romance. People should be dating before they’re wolf-married.  

“Can I ask you something and you promise not to get madder?” Stiles hedged.

“Stiles, you know that’s not a thing.”

“’Kay, but, when Mom was alive, did you ever have to choose her over Gumma?” It’s a hard question to ask, but his relationship with his dad has never been anything other than open and he’s sure it’s a question everyone has to ask at some point.

John’s eyes lower and Stiles isn’t sure what that means. He’s not angry, at least, that’s the only certainty. His dad’s expression softens a touch.

“Yes,” he says after a moment. Weirdly, it wasn’t the answer Stiles was expecting. “Yeah, sometimes you do have to make those choices. When you’re married, your spouse comes first, always. And when you have a kid, it’s even more cut and dry. But again, that’s when you’re _married_ kiddo.”

Stiles frowns, “That doesn’t sound right. Like, why does signing a piece of paper make someone more important?”

“You’re talking about Derek,” says John, eyes hard, “Let’s make that perfectly clear. And you aren’t getting my full meaning here, so lemme explain it differently. Being married to a person doesn’t suddenly make everyone around you, including your family, understand that your spouse is the one person that gets priority in all of your decision making. There are still consequences to your actions. No one is going to be ok with being picked second, get me? What you pulled yesterday was unacceptable all around and I guarantee that if Derek’s as keen on you as he seems, that he agrees. It was dangerous and reckless. You might have decided that nothing was more important than saving him, but lost sight of the fact that the only thing more important than him, is _you_. That’s why I’m angry Stiles. Not because you chose Derek. Because you chose him over yourself.”

Grinding his teeth, trying his hardest not to sound as petulant as he is Stiles says, “That’s what you do when you love someone, you put them first, you just said so.”

“Yes, and you do that by planning, by making rational, informed decisions – _not by running headlong into danger._ That’s the point I’m making. What if you had died? Derek would certainly be walk’n the wood, I don’t doubt it for a second. I would have lost my son, Gumma, her grandson, Scott his best friend. Balancing adult relationships won’t always be life-threatening, but when it is, _that_ is when you need to step back and look past yourself.”

“I just did what I thought was right.”

John stands and comes around the counter, folds Stiles into his arms and says, “I know you did. That does matter. You’re heart was in the right place, but your head weren’t there yet. You’ve never had to be in this position before and I reckon you’ll get it wrong a few more times, I just pray to all that listen the next time you have to choose it’s over whether or not you can make it to dinner.”

Stiles lets out a chuckle of relief.

“I love you, kiddo, even when you’re make’n me sick with worry.”

“I love you too, Dad,” slyly Stiles adds, “Um, while we’re having this heart-to-heart teachable moment, can you tell me where I’m supposed to put the diaphragm?”

“Stiles,” John groans, and Stiles knows his eyes are squeezed shut in long-suffering agony.

 

Stiles kicks open the door to his room and brandishes the tray of massive sandwich, family size bag of salt and vinegar chips and Gatorade with a flourish. Derek rolls his eyes and pushes himself up in bed. He’s still looking groggy and flu-ish. Wadded up used tissues dot the nightstand, all of them slowly dampening under the mist of the humidifier. Stiles sets the try over Derek’s lap and perches on the side of the bed.

“How am I supposed to fit that in my mouth,” Derek asks, eyeing the gradual lopsidedness of the sandwich.

Batting his lashes Stiles says, “Oh man, promise to say tha-,”

“ _Don’t_.”

Doing his best Gumma impersonation Stiles suggests, “Rip apart with claws and teeth.”

Derek shoots him a flat, unamused glare and starts pulling the monstrosity apart. As he works, he says, “Your father’s right.”

“ _That_ was a private conversation, Captain Hot Buns,” replies Stiles, digging a fistful of chips from the bag.

“I can’t control what I hear.”

“Not with that attitude.”

“What you did yesterday was dangerous.”

“This is reruns, baby.”

“Don’t do that.”

Mouth full Stiles asks, “What?”

“Deflect.”

“I’m not deflecting, you’re deflecting.”

“You’re being a child.”

“That makes you kind of a pervert.”

“Stiles, just because you talked to your dad about it doesn’t mean you don’t have to talk about it with me.”

With a heavy sigh, Stiles turns to face him head-on, crossing his legs on the mattress as he moves, “I know it was dumb, but I couldn’t exactly leave you like that. I have a vested emotional and sexual interest in your being a not-trapped-in-a-wolf-body-person.”

“I could have killed you. I was going to in the woods. If Gaby hadn’t stopped me I’d have ripped you apart.”

“Ok, first, that’s a fucked up thing to say and you know it. You’re just saying it to drive home some kind of emotional response-,”

“Fear. Fear is the response, Stiles.”

“ _Second_. Despite what everyone seems to think, I am glaringly aware of the position I put myself in. I’ve got some mixed feelings on it, dude, seriously. I couldn’t control myself. I’m not stellar at impulse control especially when someone I care about is in trouble. We all have our flaws.”

“Promise you won’t do it again.”

“That’s a broad-,”

“Promise you won’t ever put yourself in danger for the sake of someone else.”

“I’m not going to promise that,” Derek opens his mouth the say something else and Stiles waves him quiet, eyes hard and cold as ice, “and the _reason_ I won’t is because you would _never_ promise me something like that. And while I can’t stand the idea of you doing what I did, I know that I can’t stop something that’s in your nature. Even if your nature is wildly misguided by a crippling hero complex.”

Derek pouts in response, his lip buttoning and eyes burning a hole into his plate.

 “Honestly,” Stiles continues, voice lightening, “even if you dumped me right now, I’d probably still turn into Batman just to keep anything from happening to you.”

“Are we dating?” Derek asks gruffly, still glowering at nothing.

“… Is there some other term for what’s been happening here?”

“Wolves don’t date.” Stiles is interpreting this abrupt change in conversation as Derek’s stubborn way of acknowledging the stalemate they find themselves in and goes with it. Also. The fuck they don’t?

“Then I am very confused. I thought I made my stance on this pretty clear at the swimming hole.”

“It’s not dating, it’s courtship.”

“Dear God, _what is that?_ ” To be clear, Stiles knows the word. He is a literate person, even if his high school GPA said otherwise.

“It’s a pack tradition.”

“That entails…?”

Derek looks him dead on and grumbles, “Courting.”

“And they said you weren’t funny.”

Derek takes a grumpy bite of the whittled down sandwich.

“Should I be expecting deer carcasses left on the porch to earn my favor?” Stiles teases. Inwardly though, total fangirling – full blown kawaii heart eyes at the prospect.

“If you want,” mutters Derek as if he could not possibly be less interested in the idea. Somehow he’s still playing hard to get even though they were already in the damn relationship and it’s cute as fuck.

“Don’t bring me any of that weakest deer in the herd shit. I expect the most virulent stud of the deer kingdom on my doorstep by dawn.”

Derek rolls his eyes.

 

Derek was gone by dawn, to Stiles surprise; all of the wolves with the exception of Gaby were. Derek had tidied the room without waking him. All of the tissues were gone, the bed made and the humidifier refilled. There was even a blanket over Stiles in a gross display of some true Nicholas Sparks shit.

He swore he felt the wolves through the pack bond, even though they were far away. It was the most comforting sensation he’d ever had, to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that his pack was still beside him even when they weren’t.

He dressed and made his way to the kitchen where Gaby was shoveling Froot Loops into her mouth.

“Want any tea?” he asked, reaching passed her for the kettle.

“He left you a present,” she said in answer and Stiles' stomach did a flip, one that was excited for a present and also terrified that Derek had taken his stupid joke literally. Because wouldn’t that be an extremely _Derek_ thing to do? Whatever it was it seemed to thoroughly amuse Gaby as she looked between him and front door.

“If there’s blood on the porch, I’mma be super pissed,” he said going to the entrance. Already wincing, he pulled it open to find… not a dead thing. Fuck. Not a dead thing thank Christ. Standing on the welcome mat was a tiny wooden stag with a note tied to its neck. Stiles stares at it for a while. He’s never gotten flowers or gift or _whatever_ from anyone before. He’d always been a little jealous of the girls at his elementary school that got flowers from their parents after a school play.

_Everybody likes flowers._

Late nineties / early two thousands gendering aside, this is the sweetest thing ever, right? He almost doesn’t want to touch it in order to preserve the awesomeness. As a compromise, he takes several pictures with his phone – Instagram angles and everything – before picking it up. The little tag reads, ‘Pick you up at eight’, with a little howling wolf scribbling under the words.

Stiles holds the figurine to his chest. He fights tearing up like a fucking baby. Fails.

As he composes himself to face Gaby and his family with the sort of nonchalance that keeps them from asking questions, he hears his dad in the house mutedly talking with Gaby until, “WHAT THE HELL IS ON THE DECK?!” and then, “STILES! JESUS CHRIST, GUM GET A TARP… STILES, THE HELL DID YOU TELL THE HALE KID?”

Before he reaches the door to investigate the yelling, Stiles catches several sets of glowing eyes in the woods beyond the front of the house. Four pairs of amber light and one scarlet.

He can feel the smirking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man. So much drama. 
> 
> You know what's dumb? There's prolly tense confusion in this because I've been switching between this and my book over the last few weeks, so... my b. I'm actually not a huge fan of writing in present tense, it's always felt a little thin. Couldn't really say why I decided present was the best way to write Stay. *looks six feet back at the apartment door* We've come too far. 
> 
> Me and the Feyonce had a Harold and Kumar movie marathon. It's been very fulfilling. Medical marijuana... but... why? 
> 
> Also HAPPY PRIDE MY FRENS. HAVE FUN. BE SAFE. EAT SOM AZZ. 
> 
> My cousin told me that's a thing kids do now. I believe him becuz he's hip. 
> 
> Stay will wrap up here shortly I hope, but like I said (sort of - who writes these blurbs. I want to speak to a manager.), it's sort of taking a back seat to my book. I'll have more information on that later. Also, I'm always taking sketch requests via tumblr is there's anything you want to see lemme know. Please let me know whatcha think! 
> 
> BYE FELICIA.


	22. Death

“You are not wearing a hoody,” Lydia says, monotonally, flipping through something on her phone. She didn’t even look up, so how could she really make a sound judgment?

“This is the good hoody,” Stile groans, “You told me salmon made my-,”

“You just told me you wore that in front of him once already,” she replies, blandly, “You’re the one who wants to do a pointless eighties montage makeover for your date even though Derek’s already gotten his tongue down your throat more than once and been hang’n around for weeks. If you want me to take this seriously, then pick a different fucking outfit.”

Aghast, Stiles hits pause on his phone and ‘Take On Me’ cuts out.

“This is not active help Lyds, this is passive help. You are doing minimal effort styling.”

She glares at him, puffs out a breath and marches into his closet.

“It smells like lasagna in here,” she snipes, forcefully pulling through his hangers.

“Sad Stiles has been known to eat pasta in the closet to escape his feelings,” Stiles agreed.

“Stiles needs to never refer to himself in the third person. Where are you going anyway? Location impacts ensemble.”

“I dunno. The thing didn’t say.” He shoots a metallic glower at the deer figurine on his dresser. It does not seem apologetic in any way.

“Then who's driving?”

“Probably Derek. The timing belt on the Jeep is messed up. Apparently.”

“You own more graphic t-shirts and flannel than a board game shop owner.”

“Those are comfy!”

“How much time 'til this date?” she snaps, whirling on him.

“Like an hour?”

Lydia strides to the bed to collect her purse and drags Stiles from the room by his elbow muttering, “If this doesn’t get someone laid _so help me_.”

 

They’re in trouble, he knows they’re in trouble. But isn’t everyone? Like… all the time? Maybe not death threatening creatures of the Nightosphere trouble, but everyone is always struggling with one form of chaos or another and _that_ is how he justifies this damn date. Not that he has to, it's just his brain is on _fire_ with everything that’s happened in the last couple of weeks and maybe he does feel just a little guilty not hunting down the daddy of all shifters.

It could, at this exact moment, be sharpening its talons waiting for Stiles and Derek to separate from the rest of the group. Aren’t they the biggest threats to it after all? Stiles agrees Derek is definitely a scary fucker in a fight; himself? Maybe if the thing is stoned beyond all semblance of reality and he gets lucky with a big stick or something.

Ok, maybe he can’t justify any of this because more he spins in on it the harder it is to resist the urge to grab the wheel and have Derek turn-

“Stop thinking.”

“We should probably-,”

Derek forcefully changes gears – god does Stiles like watching a man drive – and says, “I wouldn’t ask you out if it wasn’t safe.”

“Not super worried about me,” Stiles pouted, mentally cursing the mild rush of blood to his dick.

“They’re fine.”

“ _You’re_ fine.” He looks up in time, eyebrow cocked, to see Derek grip the wheel and turn red, “But consider this, we get pizza for everyone and go back to the house and hunker down for the next eight to ten years.”

The car starts to slow down, which isn’t a huge deal because, c’mon traffic isn’t a thing in Hollow Downs. Derek pulls off on to the shoulder and leaves the engine running. Peering out at the black woods sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine.

“We aren’t going to hunt the therion on our first date?” he asks and wishes he could say the question was totally a joke.

“No,” is Derek’s stoic reply.

“Sooo like… Subway for dinner or…?”

Derek affixes him with _the look_. _The look_ is either translated as ‘what the fuck Stiles’ or ‘fuck me Stiles’ although the latter has yet to be witnessed in the wild and cataloged; Stiles is just pretty sure that they’re similar expressions.

“I’ve never –,” Derek glares out the windshield, “been with a human.” The absolute pain of the statement bleeds into Stiles as well.

“Yeah you have,” Stiles blurts without thinking. It’s like his brain subconsciously refuses to allow him to get laid. Or cuddled. Or relationshipped. “No – I mean –,”

“Kate was a hunter,” Derek tells him quietly, “It’s different.”

“There’s spark in my family dude; I’m waaay less human than Kate.”

“I can hurt you.”

“Holy shit, this is taking a _very Twilight_ turn that I am not simpatico with. Everyone can hurt everyone, that’s sort of a tacit hazard of dating.”

The agony on Derek’s face, the sheer embarrassment of it is such a far departure from the feral animal Stiles first met. It’s not a bad thing, actually, it’s a fucking stellar thing, but mostly surreal. Derek bites out, “If we’re – physical –,”

“ _Oh my God_ , we literally haven’t even gotten to the restaurant. Fuck. Man, I know you’re stronger than me. You could snap me in half. We’ll have a safe word like every other c –,” _couple._ He’s about to say couple, but, just, nope. _Nope_. First fucking date.

Derek doesn’t acknowledge his abrupt, horrified stop and says, “I want to set an expectation that this isn’t going to move… fast.”

Regaining himself Stiles nods, “Ease into it. Totally cool with me.”

Having gotten that out of his system Derek starts the car moving again.

 

They make it to the restaurant. They do not make it out of the car.

What started as ‘thanks for doing this by the way’ and a peck on the lips, has moved well into the back seat because climbing on top of Derek Hale like a lusty trash panda ended with Stiles’ ass smashing into the horn and startling several people in the parking lot.

Stiles’ mouth burns under Derek’s beard, but the fuck does he care about that right now? No fucking complaints. He’s twined to Derek, a living vine tangled around tree. And the _energy_. The sexual chi radiating from the two of them is sparkling in the close, heated air of the car. It manifests on Stiles skin, spider webs of lightening skittering over his arms and legs and chest and groin. The presence of it doesn’t deter Derek; Stiles can feel him through the bond, can feel the cyclical flow of arousal circle between them.

When Derek frees up a hand – the other pinning Stiles’ wrists above his head – his claws slide out of his fingers and Stiles hasn’t got a single fear at seeing it. It slices through the button-down Lydia bought him and nothing, _nothing_ compares to the immediate sense of intimacy that damps down the space.  Derek stares down at his bare stomach; the flush of his navel reaching down under the waist of his jeans, his hard nipples through the fabric of his torn shirt where it hasn’t completely fallen away.

Derek’s eyes drift closed and he takes a deep breath, breathing in the tangy scent of the car. It takes Stiles a moment to comprehend why they’ve paused. But when he does, he’s very still. This is an incredibly vulnerable position for him to be in and he can tell that to Derek, a predator, a man that’s trusted too fully when he should not have, it means more than either of them have words for. Stiles isn’t scared of him, isn’t scared to submit or show his belly in this way.

Him demonstrating this level of trust will help Derek to do the same.

His wolf’s eyes open again and they are burning, struck flint over tinder. He releases Stiles’ wrists and moves to gently undo the button on his pants.

Stiles isn’t super jazzed about their first time together being in a car, but he won’t spit a fucking word because this is too important and _way_ too hot. Derek urges him to scoot back and sit up and as he does his pants and underwear slide off. This is usually the point at which Stiles scrambled to turn off every light he can find; though running half-naked into the parking lot to bash in all the street lights seems extreme. He doesn’t much like looking at himself, because really, who does? Even Derek’s bound to have a twinge of body dysmorphia and he’s basically Apollo. He stifles the squirminess as best he’s able and weirdly enough, it’s easy. Derek looks him over gently. Tentatively his hand touches Stiles’ ribs, slides over his stomach.

Derek swallows and says, “I – you’re –,”

“Me too,” Stiles breathes out shakily.

Derek nods; he presses himself into Stiles’ cock, nuzzles against it and Stiles is unnerved at how much he likes the idea of Derek being covered in his scent. Derek’s tongue laps root of his sex as he goes. Once he’s got to be _drenched_ in Stiles smell, he takes Stiles’ full length into his mouth with no warning and Stiles’ chokes out a strangled sound. Derek doesn’t go quickly like their previous almost guttural make-out implied he might. His hand twists on Stiles’ shaft as his mouth pumps the head, his tongue swirling around his eye every couple seconds.

Stiles is sobbing after just a couple of minutes, but Derek refuses to go any faster regardless of the agitated bucking of Stiles’ hips. Hooded eyes lookup at Stiles, Derek mouth still slotted around his cock and Stiles nearly has an aneurysm. As good as it feels, as much as the thought of coming for Derek makes his cock ache, orgasming in front of another person has never been easy. Once the thought of underperformance is there, it won’t leave; a niggling worm refusing to be unearthed.

Stiles has never been with a generous partner; his first time with a guy he asked for breaks and got laughed at until finally Kyle, bored with having to go so slow, wandered off to the kitchen for a snack. The next few nights hadn’t gone any better and never got much healthier. It made him good at pleasuring, not being pleasured.

His dick slips out of Derek’s mouth obscenely and his wolf remarks carefully, “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

Stiles barks an odd laugh confused between a moan and choke, “It’s fine – I’m –,”

“You smell off.”

“Uncool man, smelling is cheating.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Derek asks skirting breathlessness.

“Absolutely fucking not, I just, you know, this is – I might not –,”

With a scary helping of intuition, Derek says softly, “You don’t have to come.” And Stiles has no response to that. A pause like this should be awkward, but it isn’t. Being so vulnerable under the hands of someone so strong quickens the breath in Stiles’ breast. His chest flutters, stained red and sweat-slick. Derek dips back down to his languid meal, one hand planting on Stiles hip to hold him down, to make very clear who here is dominant. The whole bitch and stud subcategory of turn-ons had, until now, been limited to boredly scrolling through porn on Stiles’ downtime. But this? Being held down when he wants to thrust, wants to touch himself – _that_ will make him come.

Past experience had kept him from looking too deeply into the kink. Being made to feel weak hurt in a bone-chilling way, but this isn't weakness. This is control. Derek will take care of everything and all he has to do was lay there, succumb to the crashing waves rolling the length of his bared, naked body.

Without the air-conditioning running the windows fog up and soon Stiles is glistening with sweat. The shreds left of the white linen shirt are soaked and clinging to his nipples, every minute shift of the fabric pulling on the hardened nubs. Stiles' hands go back over his head with no one to hold them there and he whimpers. The length of his body shining in the diffused light able to slip past the condensation. His balls start to seize, not yet ready to spill seed, but close to it. From Derek’s swallowing, he knows he was _leaking_ precum.

In the sweltering gloom of the car, Derek’s crimson eyes ignite, staring up at Stiles, taking the change in scent as an indicator of how close his mate is to climax. Stiles knows it; it screams in the wells of the bond. He hadn’t allowed himself the word mate, had convinced himself he didn’t deserve it, not yet, for any number of absurd reasons. He doesn't understand how the mated tie had formed. There was no ritual, no tradition, it had just appeared. Maybe the first day he’d met Derek in Bazaar, maybe even before that when he caught Derek eyes in school; such miserable, beautiful eyes looking, but not observing, set into a younger, stringier version of what Derek is now.

Stiles' breath hitches, a warbled cry shattering in the air and he’s coming, without focusing, with _thinking_ , his body reacting to the way Derek’s been devouring him this whole time since that first day.

He’s immediately babbling, scrambling awkwardly for something to wipe Derek’s mouth with because jizzing in someone’s face with no warning is just so not kosher. Derek just sits back, smiling in the crook of his mouth like he might laugh. Stiles is in the middle of snapping off apologies left and right still blinding fumbling for a piece of shirt or towel or jacket or _something,_ when Derek catches him under the jaw and kisses him.

And Stiles mind sort of. Isn’t.

When Derek pulls away Stiles finds the hilarity of what just happened and starts laughing like a giddy, _insane_ motherfucker.

“Are you still hungry?” Derek asks.

And Stiles gestures down at his non-pants-wearing-torn-shirt-having-self. “While I appreciate your tenacity, I don’t think walking into a restaurant like this and then being arrested by my own father would be a suitable ending to this date.”

Derek nods resolutely. He helps Stiles get his jeans back on and scuttle into the front seat.

 

Mate is still a little too esoteric of a term in relation to their adorable budding fucking romance, but as boyfriends go Derek is top of the class. He drives them to Taco Bell, whips out a Black Card and buys two huge bags of cheesy gordita crunches, Mexican nachos, Doritos tacos and a butt load of other stuff. He even gives Stiles his undershirt as a replacement for the soggy, ripped up wad in the back seat.

They spend the rest of the night shoveling down junk food and kicking ass at Splatoon. It’s the best date Stiles has ever been on. And as Derek shouts at the TV because some kid has been griefing the shit out of their base and pulling the same hide in a tiny puddle of enemy ink until someone tries to slide passed them bullshit rather than contribute to the objective crap all round, pepper jack sauce stuck on the corner of his mouth, hair all chaotic from the heat of the night, Stiles thinks contentedly: the best date he’s ever been on _so far_.

 

Unfortunately, highest highs and lowest lows always come back to a middle.

Or they get far worse. For the time being, they’ve moved Gaby to Lydia’s parent’s house on the waterfront. The Martins are never at home and the house is central to an upper-class private community. That means no more unexpected visits from Peter’s packmates, not with the twenty-four-hour patrol at both gates and all streets and a ten-foot fences enclosing the whole property. Gumma wards the house as a failsafe and gives Lydia some borrowed mountain ash from the stores of a spark a couple towns over.

They haven’t heard from Baptiste since the phone call John made a few days ago and as much as Stiles’ anxiety loves to stir up something out of nothing, that’s not strange. His family’s grove is so far from civilization him losing signal for a few days isn’t odd. Hopefully when he returns he’ll have enough mountain ash and wolfsbane to blow the therion back to hell.

At the moment, it’s all Stiles can cling to.

He, his father and Derek take in the destruction of the garage. No one had heard a thing. Not even the wolves. Maybe that’s the scariest part. And Stiles keeps an eye on Derek while they’re here because he knows his alpha’s taking this personally. Trevor is in pieces. Weeks of work gone into assembling the golem all dashed in a single night.

Stiles stomach twists. He’s never been good with the sight of blood.

John rubs his face, “Dammit, why do this? Why not just slit all our throats and get it over with?”

“It’s afraid of Stiles,” Derek points out, eerily calm.

Stiles swallows slickly and, yep, he doubles over and vomits, steadying himself on the garage door frame. Derek is behind him before the bile even hits the pavement, rubbing circles on his back.

“You ok, son?” his dad calls and Stiles manages a thumbs up. John grunts, “You know what kinda blood that is, Hale?”

“Deer,” Derek answers, “and raccoon, maybe.” Stile groans at the thought; deer, whatever, but little garbage bandits? With their little people hands? He heaves again, but nothing comes up.

“Why in blazes would it dump blood everywhere?” John asks. The scene the therion created for them is a predator torn apart and soak in what’s supposed to be its own blood. It doesn’t take a college education to guess the meaning. Only Stiles can’t tell if the challenge is meant for Derek or himself. Either way, he’s gonna be sick again.

They’re back to square one – some fucking how – after everything, nothing has changed. The threat might not be Peter, but it’s still got the backing of his pack. Maybe if they could be swayed, convinced they were being manipulated, Derek would stand a better chance at getting rid the thing with twenty to thirty wolves to help chase it off or destroy it. To break the hold the therion has on them it’d take Peter’s corpse, the real thing, not a fake. But for all they know an ethereal being might be able to eat him whole and shit him out in a different dimension.

“The fuck do we do now?” Stiles muttered, leaning into the frame.

“I’m all out of ideas,” sighs his father, “Maybe move to a different country?”

“Never run from a predator,” Derek puts in unhelpfully.

“What about Gumma?” Stiles asks, “Does she have any contacts in the Old Country? Anyone more experienced?”

“I’m afraid we’ve waited too long for that,” John says, examining the golem again, “maybe if we’d known what we were dealing with sooner…. And most ‘a Gums old friends have never left their shtetl let alone had electricity or ridden on a plane. And this thing wants a fight. Now.”

“It’s afraid of me because I’m a spark; there’s gotta be something I can do to it we just haven’t thought of.”

“No. That ain’t happen’n,” his dad snaps, “You don’t have the discipline to deal with it alone.”

Stiles wants to argue that he has the pack and is never really alone, but senses that not even Derek would go for that pitch. While Gumma and John start calling nearby covens for aid, Stiles and Derek flip through all of his grandmother’s old books. Gumma insists that she will look through the grimoire herself later and that they should look elsewhere.

Except, Stiles isn’t known for listening.

The book is only dangerous to him if he tries to _use_ it, not if he just wants to take a look-see. Derek doesn’t object either because in his own reserved way Stiles suspects he is just as much of a troublemaker at heart.

Stiles jimmies the lock without much protest. Gumma may have warded the book’s box a long time ago, but after having a child and later a grandchild she’d stripped the protections in case of an accident. She never said as much, but Stiles gets most of his skill of deduction from the old lady. He carefully fingers through it, skimming the lines and they all blur together. No matter how hard he tries all he can see on the page is the ruined carcass of their golem.

Derek sets down a glass of water between him and the book and Stiles realizes he hadn’t noticed Derek leaving the room to get it.

“I’m not thirsty,” he says hastily, redoubling his efforts to focus; he gnaws on his lip, so cracked and dry from too much pestering and a pin-drop of blood slides over his tongue.

“You threw up,” Derek tells him.

“I was there,” Stiles snips.

Unsatisfied with his answer Derek’s hand plants on the tome and drags it away across the table and when Stiles reflexively grabs for it, Derek holds back his shoulder. “That’s not going to help.”

“It _might_ ,” snaps Stiles.

“You’re upset.”

“Holy shit, _obviously_!”

Derek hoists him out of the chair, despite much flailing, and sets him on the table like he’s a straw doll. He bends into Stiles eye-line, hands firmly on Stiles’ waist and says, “We’ll think of something else.”

“That’s what I’m _trying_ to do,” Stiles barks. He hates being talked to like a child, but maybe – and he is loath to admit any such thing – there are times when he deserves it. He hasn’t stopped moving, stopped thinking in weeks. When he shuts his eyes to sleep, his mind still whirs away until daylight. If he stops maintaining this delicate balancing act, he loses something and the last time he lost control of a situation Derek was gone into the True Shift and his stomach is worms at the memory, at seeing Derek snarling and spitting and mindless.

Derek’s hands move to cup his face as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch Stiles so intimately as if sucking Stiles’ soul out through his dick wasn’t intimate already. But then, maybe to Derek, sex isn’t intimacy, this is: standing so close, mingling breath and rubbing his thumbs back and forth on Stiles’ cheekbone.

“Your hair’s long,” Derek says and from the betrayed look on his face, he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

“You’re trying to distract me, Hale.”

Derek smirks, “I _am_ distracting you.”

“Sitting around doing nothing isn’t going to fix this,” Stiles sniffs, stubbornly.

“We aren’t doing nothing,” his wolf purrs into his mouth. Stiles gives in, only for a few seconds, only long enough to taste the mint of Derek’s toothpaste and smell the rosemary on his skin before willing himself back, and maybe seconds stretch into a couple minutes because Derek’s insistent, wanting. He pushes Stiles to a point, tongue shyly lapping his mouth and daring Stiles to chase it.

“You're using your wolfy powers of seduction for evil,” Stiles groans, crotch throbbing thickly, dragging on the stiff fabric of his jeans. He feels his eyes narrow when a stray thread of thought snags, “Why are you so calm?” he asks, and Derek’s face goes unreadable, “No, seriously, why are you being such a sultry Sandy all of a sudden?”

Derek searches Stiles’ face and then the floor and he says, “I don’t think we have a lot of time.”

A hole punches Stiles’ stomach through and through and fills with ice. He says, swallowing, “We do, we have lots of time,” but he doesn’t believe himself. They are outmatched, outclassed by the therion; it’s toying with them now. How could it have known about the golem? No one wanted to say it, but they all knew the creature could become nothing, become vapor if it was so inclined and mountain ash and boundary wards were useless against it. How many times had it been in the house? Sat amongst them at a pack dinner? They liked to tell themselves it feared Stiles but did it? It had been squatting in Peter’s skin for months, years more likely; it knew the town, it knew the Hales and the Stilinskis and every other family trapped in its territory. They were its prisoners, they always had been.

Derek doffed his shirt. Hard lines of muscle and coarse dark hair stood out like a pillar in the golden lamplight. He’s the most radiant thing Stiles has ever seen.

“It’ll come for you,” Derek whispered, gentle fingers unbuttoning Stiles’ jeans, “and it’ll have to go through me, and Erica and Boyd and Isaac and Scott. If I die before you can kill it-,”

“ _Derek_ -,”

“ _If I die_ , I want to die as your mate.”

Why hadn’t Stiles realized this behavior sooner? How fucking oblivious is he; he a survivor of trauma? A date? A fucking date in the middle of everything, and not just a date, but the perfect date. All of them stood at the lip of the world, one misstep from falling into oblivion and he and Derek had gone on a date. Maybe he had thought they were grasping at normalcy, but Derek wasn’t trying to remind them of their humanity, he was saying goodbye.

Stiles takes both of his hands and they still when he touches them.

“We aren’t doing this,” Stiles snaps, “We aren’t gonna end-of-the-world-bang because that means we give up, ok? And, also, having sex doesn’t make you my mate. You’ve been my mate since we met, probably since before that. And once this is over I’m gonna rock your fucking world, understand? I’m talking two days of mind-bending slow-boning and only breaking to rehydrate. I’m fucking _in love_ with you and there’s no version of this that ends with either of us dead.”

Blotches of red sprout up in the valley of Derek’s chest and rush up his throat to his face and ears. When the shock wears down he nods sharply, maybe embarrassed by himself or Stiles sudden use of the ‘L’ word.

He says quietly, staring daggers at Stiles’ shoulder rather than his eyes, “I love you.” Of course, it comes out frustrated and it’s perfect.

Grinning like a loon Stiles says, “Good. Now for the love of Christ, put your shirt back on before my dad comes in here.”

 

They research into the night, John and Gumma pulling books from the attic and Stiles’ fingers a constant source of clacking on his keyboard. Sometime around one in the morning, the Sheriff demands they all go to bed. The books have nothing for them. A creature like a therion is a ghost story told to wolf-children, not even they believed it to be real. Stiles waits until he feels Derek slip away through the pack bond, stretched out on the couch downstairs.

He whispers a few songs from the Grimoire to his feet. The book is too powerful, but phrases from it, mixed with some chants that trickle to him from the Beyond the Door, are innocuous. This casting he had learned a long time ago, a simple cantrip, for silent footsteps, and one he used often to sneak out of the house and hang out with Scott when he was younger. He monitors Derek’s aura until he lands on the dewy grass below the rose trellis a little scratched up by thorns. When he’s far enough from the house, he sits cross-legged to center his energy and carefully, _carefully,_ reaches out to Gaby through the bond.  The Pack is a tapestry of wolves, each picked out in a different thread and the silver moonlit strands of Gaby’s are closely twined to the ebony of Derek’s. Pulling hers loose takes concentration that brings bubbles of sweat across Stiles’ forehead.

For his grandmother, such a thing would be thoughtlessly easy and he can hear her voice scolding him each time his mind begins to wander. When he has her thread he tugs at it, whispering down the line for her to wake up. She vibrates to life, her thread pulsating with shine and she doesn’t need words like the others do; she understands what he wants her to do through the bond alone. Gaby’s quiet when she moves; knows how to manipulate the sounds around her to pad her away out of the house without alerting anyone to her movement. Stiles used to think Derek was the most wolf in looks and abilities he’d ever met until her.

She emerges from the house, the pearl and silver of her wolf form glowing like the moon, perhaps even emitting her own light. He had not expected she would leave the house as a human, maybe she never would. She trots to him and he stands to greet her.

They walk down the road, in total darkness, but Stiles has walked it so many times he never needed much light and Gaby can see well enough for the both of them. When they’re far enough away Stiles says, “We’re going to kill the therion, ok?”

The moon reflects in her eyes when she looks at him, but she doesn’t cower or whine.

“The others might get themselves hurt trying to protect us, but I don’t think we need protecting anymore.”

She snorts in agreement and she’s scared in the bond, her thread shaking, but she’s determined too.

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” he tells her, “you don’t have to face It.”

She chuffs at him as if letting him go alone is the most absurd thing she’s ever heard.

“I have an idea. While we were reading, we were trying to find something to kill the therion with, but there’s nothing recorded about anyone slaying one except for battle-mages and there’s barely any detail on how they did it. The problem is that it can vanish physically and straddle the plains, the Between, and can only really be killed when it takes physical shape. We have to force it to take shape. We already have a weapon; what we need is a snare.”

They wander from the road and into the swamps. Whenever they stray too near a predator or deep water, Gaby nudges him away. For an hour or so they trudge through the muck until mud is caked up to Stiles’ knees. He chooses his spot at random. In order to talk to who he wants to talk to, they need to be lost in the swamp. He sinks to his haunches and takes out his piercings, carefully unclasping each one from his ears. Once they are all in hand he folds them in the mud at the water’s edge.

“Wystąp naprzód,” he mutters. His hands submerge into the doughy ground. It’s warm around them and thrumming with energy. He keeps chanting the words and weaving them into the water and silt. Beside him, Gaby whines in warning, signaling the approach of the ones Stiles is calling out to.

The water undulates and Stiles pulls away his hands. A haggard voice comes to him from the swamp speaking in ragged Polish, “Do not disturb what you do not understand.”

“I’ve come to make an offering,” Stiles answers.

“We’ve no use of silver.”

“I’ve more to offer than silver.”

 

Stiles follows the swamps to the edge of the Hale territory, no doubt looking himself like Baba Jaga in his muddied clothes with leaves and twigs stuck in his hair. He doesn’t take the time to hesitate once he gets there, doesn’t let himself doubt or he’ll lose his nerve, panting from the run he shouts, “Peter!”

Peter’s pack is not patrolling the grounds, nor have they in some time from the lack of wolf scent. They might be gone already, absorbed into the beast and Stiles stands shivering and small in the gloom waiting for It to come to him. He has to do this alone. He has to. Because he believes Derek when he says the therion would have to fight him to get to Stiles. And he won’t watch Derek be devoured.

He thinks of shuffling off to bed hours before, of Derek lingering in his doorway, kissing him, their foreheads pressed and murmuring together. Derek wasn’t the only one saying good bye, he just wasn’t as good a liar as Stiles. Better to leave him with good dreams to dream until the morning. Maybe hot tears run down Stiles’ cheeks when he thinks of his family and his pack. Maybe he wipes them away too quickly to really know.

“Peter!” he screams again and this time, he is answered.

“Child,” says Peter’s voice from behind him, but not Peter’s tone. It's missing his cool authority, his arrogance.

“You,” Stiles’ spit is tacky when he swallows, “You called me out and I’m here.”

“Called you out?” muses the therion, leaning against a mangrove’s trunk. Its feet should have been sinking into the swamp, but it stands over the sloppy ground as evenly as if it were asphalt.

“You killed the golem,” he snaps, “You’ve been tormenting me since you sliced up my back; so – so what do you want? You want me dead?” Stiles voice breaks on the last word.

“I don’t kill, child,” It tells him, “mortals kill. Shifters kill. I acquire.”

“If you wanna acquire me just do it!”

“No,” It’s eyes glimmer, “Your spiritus is strong, you’ll make for good breeding stock. After the first few times, you won’t need to be strapped down in the fertility circle anymore, you’ll beg for it.”

“ _Why_?” Stiles bleats, “What’s the point of any of it?”

The therion vanishes into the mist and reappears clutching Stiles’ by the throat, “You’re always asking _why_ , all of you, constantly driveling to your leaders and to your gods, _why, why, why_? There is no _why_ Stiles, there is no point, no end. Things are or they are not. I do what I do because I am what I am.”

“That’s – an – easy way – not to take - responsibility - for anything,” Stiles hisses under the thing’s grasp, pawing fruitlessly at its wrist. He can see the therion now; it may still wear Peter’s face, but it’s there in the pits of his eyes, dark and wild, a creeper vine choking out its host. No, not its host; Peter’s gone. There’s no part of him left, maybe he hasn’t been there for a long time.  

“Responsibility is a human construct created to maintain order. It means nothing outside the delicate confines of your false reality. There is only chaos, Stiles, only the forest. She was here long before you and she will be here long after you. You want so badly to kill me because I am everything that you are not. I am the Wildwood, the root of your being, what mortals used to be. You invented rules for the sake of progress, but can you really tell me why progress is so necessary? It’s because you _hate_ yourselves, you do everything you can at the expense of everything around you to shed the cave-dwelling _rodents_ you started from.

“Mortals are unnatural and I am the natural response to you. I will absorb and breed and flay the hatred out of you and you will walk the wood once more.”

“ _No_ ,” growls Stiles, growls like a cornered wolf and reaching into the bond, the river of energy, he says, “I want to kill you because you _threatened my pack_.”

Electricity cracks between them loud and jarring as a gunshot. Dazzling bright, pale green webs send the therion flying back into the swamp with a concussive blast that echoes through the bayou and shakes Stiles down to his core. He shapes his hands, middle fingers to thumbs, just as Gumma showed him when he was little, guiding his posture and motions, one position to the next, smooth as water, strong as the current. The ball of energy builds from his core, crisping in the night air as it materializes, and blood runs from his nose, but there’s only Derek in his mind; Derek’s hands and eyes, the great black wolf under his skin.

Energy drains from the plants at his feet, drying them out into dead stalks and from the trees that yawn and cry as they offer him their life force. He hurls the orb into the water where the therion is staggering, gasping for breath after the first blow and it seizes when the spark sizzles the water, electrifying and devouring all in its path.

And then they come.

From every puddle, they emerge, ghostly hand grabbing from the beneath the water’s surface, tearing at the therion. They aren’t enough to kill the creature, but they, like it, exist between realms. The drowned men, the topielce, drag down the thrashing therion, force it to its knees and the therion’s skin flickers in and out, trying to become nothing to escape, but ethereal hands of the dead hold firm.

Stiles falls to the ground, head pounding, body racked and shaking, but still, he forces spark through the ground and to the water prison to subdue the beast. Blood spatters his palms, dripping freely from his nose and ears. He can’t breathe, he can’t see, he just wants to sleep, to go where there is only him and quiet, where the pain can’t follow.

_The wolf lingers a moment longer than he should expression changing somehow, unwavering eyes on Stiles, eyes on him like – shit, he doesn’t even know what._

_Power coils in his arms and shoulders, ready to move if he has to, if Peter doesn't give him a choice. He latches on Stiles’ gaze and Stiles' knees go a little weak._

_"You smell like a thunderstorm from fifty paces.”_

_Derek moves thoughtlessly to press his nose under Stiles' jaw to breath._

_What are scars to someone like Derek Hale?_

The spark is burning him out from the inside like a dying star, but it’s ok. It’s ok to let go. Because he said goodbye and the pack will color in whatever Stiles takes with him when he goes. Soon the flow of spark stops hurting, he’s a well-worn channel, smooth as river-stone. It pours from him and he’s tired and warmed by it. He curls up by the fire of it. Before he’s gone into himself, he sees Her and she’s glorious; sinew of steel and moonlight, a goddess galloping through the rushes. The silver wolf’s huge feet pummel the earth and then she leaps at the therion. Horror, real horror, perhaps the kind such an old being had forgotten twists it’s face into a mangle of cut lines. It tries to scream, it mouth full of jagged teeth and stretching open too wide, but the wolf’s jaws close on its head and rip it free in one clean motion.

She whips the head back and forth a few times before throwing it to the topielce. They drag the carcass under until the water is left with only froth and ripples.

Her panting, frenzied breath and the chirp of far-off cricket-song lulls Stiles into the long sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello there. Damn. 
> 
> SO the next two chapters are the end and the epilogue. You've waited long enough for the conclusion so they're all being posted at once. Please let me know how you like the ending! 
> 
> xoxoxxoxoxox


	23. Found

Stiles is surprised to wake up. That’s a real shocker.

And his whole body is heavy and he’s pretty sure he’s high off his ass. Because waking up in a hospital, like this is a bad soap opera, is fucking _hilarious_ to him. He’s cackling like a lunatic by the time a nurse comes in to check on him and she’s talking to him like she’s a little afraid of him.

She asks things like, “Do you remember what happened?” and “How’s your pain?”

And Stiles can only offer one-word responses between breaths and laughter. How the fuck is he even alive right now? He remembers what happened, mostly, but in a faraway kind of memory, like it happened while he was asleep. If he wielded the volume of power his slow, drugged brain is trying to tell him he did, his should be a grinning corpse in a morgue. Gumma warned about the bleeds, had rapped his knuckles with a switch once when he gave himself a bloody nose trying to make a mountain ash circle. The bleeds meant you weren’t far off from melting your own brain with spark overload.

As the nurse tries to calm him down there’s a ruckus in the hall beyond his room and suddenly, having barreled through a technician, Derek’s in the doorway, coffee spilled down his arm and chest in his hurry. And Stiles can’t think of what was so funny anymore and bursts into tears. Ugly, snotty tears until Derek is on the bed and scooping him up against him. If Derek’s as upset as he is, it’s a little more dignified; quietly sobbing into Stiles’ shoulder.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Derek snaps, rocking him.

Stiles blubbers apologies over and over, but never really makes it to the end of any of them before starting again.

For a long time, they aren’t able to separate. Maybe hours, maybe Stiles falls asleep a couple of times when his morphine gets turned up.

 

The doctor tells him he suffered massive internal hemorrhaging; the kind people _do not_ come back from and none of the staff are entirely certain how he survived. Derek tells him that Gaby carried him to the road and had been trying to heal him when the pack found them. She could fix his body, but the channel of spark he had opened kept leaking energy for all her efforts. She had held his hand all the way to the hospital and nearly attacked the ER staff when they took him away.

Derek hadn’t left the hospital since they arrived three days ago. John and Gumma came as often as the old lady could make the trip and brought clothes and food to Derek as he sat vigil.

Derek calls them as soon as he and Stiles can stand to be apart and when the Stilinskis come crashing through the hospital, with wolves in tow, the tears start all over again. John doesn’t have any terse words for his son, not right now, not when he’s finally awake and talking and alternating between laughing and crying. Gaby crawls on to the bed in wolf form, a ridiculous neon orange collar and service dog vest strapped to her giant body.

She curls up with Stiles and he can’t do anything other than wrap his arms around her neck and press his head to hers. The nurses occasionally shoot suspicious glances at what must be the _biggest_ fucking dog they have ever seen taking up most of Stiles’ bed. Erica puts down flowers by the bed, and on the window sill and every other conceivable place and they all just exist in this moment of peace for as long as they can.

 

The hospital won’t let Stiles go for another day while they observe his recovery. He feels stronger every hour, more himself, no doubt because of the formidable bond of a large pack. He goes looking through it while Derek holds him and reads a book aloud; the tapestry of his wolves as expanded. Red threads bind in his father and his grandmother.

Derek must feel him prodding the new branches and says quietly, “Stay with me.”

Stiles nods and nuzzles into Derek’s chest.

 

Scott comes the next day with an enormous teddy bear under one arm and balloons. Stiles’ room is starting to look like a gift shop. Scott pulls him into a bear hug and they eat Doritos and watch soaps on the flickering television in the corner.

 

As Stiles is wheeled to the parking lot, yelling at Scott to run faster and Derek disapproving silently as he watches their idiocy, John gets a phone call. He leaves Derek to fill up of the car with the embarrassing amount of gifts Stiles has received. Scott and Stiles are stopped in their wheelchair-donut-doing when Scott notices John’s heart rate spike and he slows to a stop.

“What’s going on?” Stiles asks, peering up at his friend. Scott says nothing and across the lot, John’s gone stark white. “Dad?” he calls.

 

They pull into the town Wildlife Preserve and drive through the snaking roads of marshes. Places like this usually aren’t of much interest to the tourists. There’s no beach in the wetlands and no food or drink permitted. The Preserve is a desolate place and most of it is owned by a private conservationist. Other than that, Stiles has only been here a handful of times with his parents when his mother was alive. They drive further in than he knew visitors were allowed to. The road is unmaintained and narrows so harshly that it looks off limits.

Stiles takes Derek’s hand. He’s stiff in his seat and hasn’t said a word since they left the hospital. He squeezes Stiles hand a little too hard, but Stiles doesn’t let go.

The road widens just enough for a few cars to park. Baptiste’s Rangerover is already parked there, but he’s nowhere in sight. John kills the engine and all they can do is wait. Erica and Boyd bring Gaby an hour or so later to join them. She goes to Derek and curls up at his feet, tail flicking and little whines escaping her every now and again.

“You ok?” Stiles whispers, nudging Derek’s shoulder. He gives a curt nod, but Stiles knows he won’t be able to speak until this is over. The sun sinks into a cauldron of gold and pink brew, ready to pour out into night. Stiles sits by Gaby feeding her cookies from on the gift baskets. She snuffles while licking them out of his hand, but is more of a suggestion of who she is normally.

It’s nearly dark when the Baptiste makes his way out of the woods, a child draped in his jacket balanced on his hip, his hand reaching back into the brambles to guide a naked woman through. And there are more, ragged and dirty people stumbling out of the woods. Erica and Boyd start pulling blankets from the back of their truck and John, too, is ready with first aid.

But Derek and Gaby don’t move to help.

They don’t move until a scruffy man in torn pajamas comes out of the rushes supporting a woman with smoky dark eyes and the same angular face.

“MAMA!” shrieks Gaby and she’s no longer a wolf. She sprints to close the distance and the woman cries, “Gaby!” hobbling away from the man until she can throw her arms around her daughter. The other wolves come to them, aunts and uncles and cousins, all of them weeping to see Gaby alive. Stiles stays behind when Derek goes to the man that had help Gaby’s mother from the wood, it doesn’t feel right to go with him.

Peter Hale never looked so human; tears skate down his face when he embraces his nephew. Stiles sniffs and rubs his eyes and he knows, he just knows that it’s really Peter. That the starved, scraggly man shedding tears at the sight of his nephew couldn’t have done all of those horrible things. Stiles doesn’t have the right to think of himself as a victim of the therion, not after what it did to Peter, not after what it took from him.

He and Derek stand together, foreheads leaned together, hands clasping each other’s neck.

John sidles up to his son and throws an arm around his shoulders, “BT says he found them in the mountain ash grove, trapped under the trees.”

Stiles nods. He doesn’t care how or why. Derek’s family, his family, isn’t burned away. They’re all still here. Together. He trots to the car to grab more coats and blankets, anything to wrap up the bewildered McNamara pack. There’s too much to do to quibble over details. They’ll clean their wounds, feed themselves, grow stronger and then they can start to rebuild.

He catches Derek eyes across the lot and he knows, no matter what comes next, it’s nothing to fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter!
> 
> This has been a fucking labor of love. So much has happened to me this year that I'm shocked I was able to finish this beast at all. I'll have more notes in the epilogue if anyone would like to read them!
> 
> Thank you for being so patient and sticking with me this long!
> 
> <3


	24. Epilogue

Stiles crouches on a felled log, baseball bat balanced over his shoulders, his long coat bright red in the falling winter sun.

“Hey there fella,” he calls and the hunter below him freezes, an iron vice of a hand clenched on his crossbow. “Whatcha do’n?”

The man is very still, staring up at Stiles like he’s a ghost. At first, the pose is pure shock and defensive, but then his shoulders fall a hair. Something like recognition crosses the man’s battle marred face. Cool. What is not cool is the _fleur de lis_ patch picked in silver thread sewn to his flak jacket. Stiles licks his lips and grins dryly, “You looking for someone?”

“This doesn’t concern the Hale Pack,” yells the hunter.

“Stilinski-Hale,” Stiles corrects, “I’m tryna get it to catch on. Certain sourwolves and their shitty uncles are against the abbreviation. Also, you crossed into my territory about a klick back, dude.” Even Stiles has trouble keeping the borders of the territory straight; they expand every other month thanks to Peter and Gumma’s renewed and ambitious friendship. Apparently, when Peter was just a pup Stiles’ grandmother used to babysit him and his sisters and more than once Stiles has caught Gumma swatting Peter’s ass when he gets in her way just like she used to do to Stiles. The amount of tinkering they do in the Hale House lab and greenhouse is dangerously close to mad-scientist levels of weird and are only made worse when Baptiste comes over to fiddle with his hair tonic recipes.

But Stiles can’t argue with the results. BT’s new hair dye is blood red, refuses to fade and looks fabulous on Stiles. There may or may not be some enchantments on the pigments and they may or may not have crushed some of the local salon competition.

“Sheltering a rogue wolf isn’t in your pack’s better interest,” and Stiles had to chuckle at that for, ya’ know, reasons.

Stiles shrugs, “I leave the big ‘best interest’ decisions to my husband, but he leaves the ‘keep the assholes off our land’ business to me. I came out here to ask you nicely to leave.”

The hunter hocks a wad of spit and flings it in Stiles’ general direction. He’s too high up at the crest of the gully to get any on him, but message received.

“This wolf you’re track’n happens to be a twelve-year-old,” Stiles tells him, “Got bit by a rogue alpha and abandoned. Don’t you think your skills would be put to better use find’n _that_ big, crazy motherfucker rather than hunting down a child?”

The man says nothing. He’s thinking, trying to decide what to do. He can’t kill Stiles, well he could try, but killing an emissary to the largest pack in Louisiana would start a land war the scattered remains of the Argents can’t afford to back.  The growing territory has yet to disturb any other surrounding packs, not many left in the south anyhow, according to Gumma. It has more recently been of _slight_ inconvenience to local hunting clans. They pop up more often now, waving crossbows and burning wolf effigies, rallying behind the Argent’s battle cry of revenge.

Stiles would lose more sleep over it if not for the fact that there will always be danger running with wolves. Always some new threat skulking at the edges of their land and in shadows; always chaos. And on the nights he can’t manage sleep, he and his wolf, his alpha, stay up until daybreak worshipping each other. That’s enough for both of them and more than either of them thought they would have in the end.

“Right, well,” Stiles continues, “You can leave now or we can have it out.”

“You’ll have a bolt in your throat the second you move a way I don’t like,” the hunter shouts back, leveling his crossbow. Stiles grins and winks, stands straight with his bat wheeled back and the hunter fires at him. From the dumb look on his face, it was an itchy trigger finger that sent the bolt flying, and the look sinks into an even dumber one when Stile wrenches the bat and sends the shaft twirling through the air and safely away. Maybe he’s been taking his training with Gum a little more seriously these days. Maybe.

“Witch,” mutters the hunter, eyes cow-like.

Stiles rolls his eyes and hikes the bat up over one shoulder, “I seen a lot of you guys ‘round these parts the last few months and none of you seem to be getting the message so let me make this perfectly clear: anyone that means to do harm here will be run out. Anyone who attacks a member of my pack, their life is _forfeit_ on these grounds and anyone who insights bloodshed against those seeking asylum here will _die_ in these woods.”

The musk of wolf fur and sweat rises in the air as a massive black wolf pads to Stiles’ side, eyes glowing red as a blood moon and white fangs glaring in the setting sun.

“You tell your friends that this is the last warning,” Stiles purrs and more wolves come through the undergrowth, russet and brindle and gray and dusty and moon-colored. Ears lay folded back as they snarl, circling the grove, appearing in the mist like wraiths hunting as one. They leave an opening wide enough for the hunter to run through their ranks and he does, abandoning his crossbow as he flees. Stiles watches the man’s back, shrinking into the forest, his footsteps loud and crashing in his mad dash to escape and Stiles’ smiles.

Stiles looks to the black wolf and glittering garnet eyes look back.

“Go get ‘em,” Stiles says tilting his bat into the sling across his back and the wolf chuffs and leaps into the gully. The pack heeds the command and darts after the obsidian wolf, spreading out through the ground scrub and as they vanish into the ether the moon-silver wolf comes to Stiles’ side. He climbs onto her back, crouches flat along her spine with her ruff balled in both hands and she takes off, a blur in the low fog.

Thirty wolves pound like thunder through the wood, their spark of lightning following close behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok man, first off, if you read this far, thank you so much for taking the time to do so! I really appreciate it, especially those of you who have been here since the beginning and waited for weeks and months while I got my shit together enough to post new chapters. I really dd not think it was possible to gain so many readers, my mind is fucking blown. And thank you to anyone who posted comments or questions because it really is encouraging. Really. Everyone says it, but any kind of feedback just lets fanfic writers know they aren't just screeching in to the void. 
> 
> I started writing Stay for a lot of reasons. I have bad anxiety - like BAD - and manic depression; at the time, the depression part was really, really horrible. There were a lot of toxic people in my life that I've since cut out. People that treat women and sex like some sort of fucked up poisonous game. They did manage to teach me the importance of self respect and consent and I tried to channel it into Stay. If I have any younger readers, the best advice I have is to be selective of who you let in your life. Not everyone is bad, but there are a lot of people who don't have your well-being at heart. People like that aren't even really malicious, they're just selfish or self absorbed and that isn't your fault or your problem. 
> 
> Also, I know this fandom has a lot of problems, but I'm so grateful for the outpouring of support I've received since finding it and I'm happy to contribute to it for as long as I can. 
> 
> Whew. That shit is long winded. 
> 
> So, I've got some ideas for the next fic, but nothing concrete right now. This next time around I'm gonna try to write the whole thing out first (hahahahaha we'll see) before posting, so it may be a while before I have new material. I'm also cool with suggestions if there's anything you want to see specifically. Just leave a comment here or send me a message on tumblr (also I always have sketch requests open pretty constantly if you want certain fanart). 
> 
> Again I can't shower you guys with enough flower petals and thanks! 
> 
> BUT I'LL TRY.
> 
> THANK YOU FOR READING, I HOPE YOU LIKED IT AND YOU'RE LOOKN REAL CUTE TODAY BB.


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